


please don't set me alight i'm allergic to third degree burns

by egregiousmistake



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Developing Relationship, Everyone Is Gay, Everyone is a gay disaster, F/F, Ghost Hunters, Keith is a demon, M/M, No Voltron, Past Relationship(s), Racism, Romellura, Slow Burn, adam is angry, adashi, and other supernatural elements, essentially buzzfeed unsolved but its on eighteen pounds of cocaine, keith is most certainly not having a good time, klance, lance says no homo, of course it doesn't go well, shiro is depressed, so nothing new here, violence at certain points
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-01-16 02:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18511912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egregiousmistake/pseuds/egregiousmistake
Summary: being a demon is hard. hiding the fact that you're a demon is even harder. desperately trying to stop yourself from brutally murdering your best friend is probably the hardest, keith would say.





	1. a particularly firm “no homo”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: this story is not intended to mock, ridicule or insult any religion. The religious views displayed in this story are purely fictional and are not shared by the author.
> 
> hi this is rushed and shitty but it took me 2 hours so im gonna post it. please enjoy.

Lance was terrified of ghosts.

Everyone who knew him knew this. Nearly everyone in the office had seen the videos of him visiting supposedly haunted ships and restaurants and houses - he certainly didn't try to keep them a secret. How he’d managed to get so much time off work to travel around the country to record himself screaming at the top of his lungs in dark corridors was anyone’s guess, but he did almost every month, and with each visit he’d become more and more determined to find definitive proof of the supernatural, despite his crippling fear. It was almost admirable.

Whether it be ghosts, cryptids or genies, Lance was obsessed with discovering their whereabouts and catching their behaviour on film. His bank account had been drained through multiple purchases of cameras, recording equipment, motion detectors, spirit boxes, ouija boards and more. The practise was one of the only things he took seriously, and preparation for each trip was completed weeks in advance. There was nothing otherworldly that the plucky Cuban boy would refuse to study, barring one thing: demons. Lance could not and would not summon, interact with or even step foot in any place that was rumoured to contain demons, a fact that was hilariously ironic to his coworker and best friend, Keith, considering he himself was one.

Being a demon was something Keith had kept to himself since birth. A select few people knew about his heritage apart from his own parents, all of which were members of the occult themselves. Allura, his roommate, was a faery, as was her girlfriend, Romelle, and the three of them had been friends for many, many years. Neither of them held any ill-will towards Keith or his species, and all of them spent hours together complaining about the many issues and conflicts humanity created for themselves.

Keith wasn’t just a regular demon, however. He was a half-breed. His mother was a high-ranking demon, one of Satan’s closest associates and harvester of thousands upon thousands of souls. She was respected by every living being in the underworld and had been since the beginning of time. What those who bowed down to her didn’t know was that she was the mother of an illegitimate child, a son who held human blood within his veins, a disgusting amalgamation of the unholy and the mortal; a disgrace, even by Hell’s standards. Almost every other demon Keith had encountered despised him. As a result, he was very happy that half-breeds didn’t qualify for official work, and so could do whatever they pleased. It had been quite a while since Keith had entered Hell, and he wished to keep it that way, even at the expense of never seeing his mother again. His father had died years ago.

Keith had been alive for centuries and had met thousands of mortals, in numerous countries, of numerous cultures and attitudes and behaviours, and yet he had never, in his hundreds of years of existence, met anyone quite like Lance. It was utterly baffling. Keith felt drawn to him, like a moth to a flame, always seeking to be around the exuberant young man, often finding himself falling into step behind Lance with whatever he decided to do. And, as a result of this strange connection, Keith found himself agreeing to accompany his unlikely friend on one of his pointless expeditions.

“Let’s go ghost hunting!” Lance exclaimed, pushing off his desk with his left foot and zooming towards Keith on his wheeled office chair. Not looking up from his computer, Keith gave a little sigh, tapped a few keys on his keyboard and grabbed the arm of Lance’s chair before he collided with Keith’s workspace, causing Lance to wobble slightly in his seat.

“Why me?” Keith responded, grey eyes flickering up to meet Lance’s sunny gaze, before returning to his work. It’s not that he didn’t want to spend time with Lance - they hung out together weekly, spending time at the nearby bowling alley on Fridays, where Keith regularly scored strikes and Lance gawked at the woman who ran the slushie machine; it was either that or playing video games in Lance’s bedroom until they passed out. But lately something was off. Keith had found it considerably harder to get out of bed the past few weeks, to his roommate’s chagrin, and an odd ache had started up in his jaw. The very last thing he wanted to do was sleep in some dingy hotel with Lance ‘I sprint up the stairs once I turn the lights out to stop monsters from eating my legs’ McClain.

“C’mon, dude! You’ve been really quiet lately and Hunk said he had to go to some lame cooking competition and cancelled on me. So, you come with me, I administer the ol’ razzle dazzle to the investigation to cheer you up while also not having to worry about a demon sneaking up behind me and ripping out my lungs because you’ll have my back. It’s a win-win!”

Keith couldn’t help but chuckle at that, finally turning his chair to look at his friend directly. Lance was wearing his usual ensemble: a brown jacket with a white hood, small bands of pale orange decorating the upper sleeves, and a pair of worn blue jeans. His hair had been recently cut, yet the small cowlick of brown strands remained tall at the back of his scalp. His blue eyes shone with excitement and were locked in a staring match with Keith’s, clearly anticipating his response.

“I doubt Pidge will give me the hours off. I still haven’t completed my character design for that antagonist.” Keith responded, but Lance wasn’t so easily deterred.

“Dude, she loves me. I’ll get you the time off, easy, I’m incredibly charming.” Lance reclined back in his seat, a smug grin on his face indicating that there was no way Keith was going to get out of this. He sighed again, pushing his fingers through his unruly hair, before raising both hands in defeat.

“Fine. I’ll come.” he said, flinching slightly as Lance leapt from his own seat and grabbed onto Keith’s pale arm, shaking the limb with rigorous joy.

“Fuck yeah, baby!” he whooped, prompting multiple stares from the other workers in the room, a red blush spreading across his face as he quickly sat back down. “No homo.” he added, releasing Keith’s arm, which had turned a bright pink in response to Lance’s firm grip, and zipped back over to his desk on the adjacent wall. Keith chuckled once more, turning back to his monitor, which displayed a half finished sketch of an intimidating woman labelled ‘Haggar’. If he was going to skip work to search for ghouls, he had to complete something at least.

As he directed his mouse to continue his work, the dull pain in his jaw that had been plaguing him for the last month returned, causing him to cup his jaw in both his hands. It throbbed beneath his teeth, curling tightly around his canines, as if something beneath them was attempting to push them upwards. Said canines almost seemed to vibrate, the feeling travelling from his jaw to the rest of his body, making him shudder. He probed the base of his mouth with a finger, hoping to soothe the sensation slightly, to little avail. His finger twitched suddenly, catching itself on his upper set of teeth. A sharp pain tore across his skin. Frowning, he removed his finger from his mouth to see a jagged cut across the digit, dark blood dripping down his hand. That was… odd. His teeth weren’t usually that sharp. Just as the cogs in Keith’s brain began to turn, a blinking message appeared on his screen, reminding him to complete his character reference sheet before the deadline. Wiping the blood away on his jeans, he returned his attention to the picture before him, clenching his teeth as an alternative pain relief treatment.

The end of the day didn’t come fast enough.

*****

A small pop up in the corner of the computer screen informed Keith that his designs had been successfully sent to head office, a message that filled him with great satisfaction. He was very proud of how ‘Haggar’ had turned out and knew that Pidge, his boss and lead game developer, would be very pleased with the results.

Packing his belongings into his black satchel, he switched off his computer screen and tucked his chair beneath his desk. The office population was thinning now, more than half the staff that were previously present having finished their shifts, a few exhausted stragglers still typing away at their stations in the low light. The sun had already set, glimmering stars visible through the office windows, softly dancing in the inky night sky. The noise of the city below only just reached up from the street, cars purring like a blanket of content kittens and the occasional honking of irritated horns audible from where Keith was standing. He shut his eyes and simply listened, soothed by the regular hustle and bustle of the road. The pain in his jaw had finally subsided.

“Yo, Kogane!” came the shout from behind him, completely shattering the peaceful atmosphere and making Keith almost screech in fright. Lance wrapped his arm around Keith’s shoulders, their faces almost touching as Lance’s outstretched right hand high-fived the open air. “Just imagine, by this time tomorrow we could be up to our shoulders in ghost evidence, ready to receive our million dollar checks for being the first people to document actual supernatural activity. This is gonna be fantastic!” he stage-whispered, completely ignorant to his friend’s shock. Keith, now recovered from his moment of terror, turned his head to hit Lance with an irritated glare.

For a moment, Lance continued to stare at his hand with such reverence that you’d assume it had just given him a Nobel Prize, before he too turned his head to see if Keith was reciprocating his gesture. Still within close proximity, their noses gently bumped against each other and Lance practically flew across the room, as if he had just been scalded with a white-hot poker, his smile replaced with a strange look of fear.

“Ha, uh, woah there, that was, um… that was a bit… what was I talking about?” Lance said, his voice shaking ever so slightly. He sheepishly rubbed his shoulder, eyes darting around the room before they hesitantly returned to meet Keith’s gaze.

“Uh, you were daydreaming about being rich and famous.” Keith replied, an amused smile pulling at his lips. “You alright there, McClain?”.

For a second there was no response, Lance continuing to rub his shoulder with some sort of urgency. Keith pulled his satchel over his head to rest on his neck, the sound of the metal clasp clicking shut bringing Lance out of his stupor.

“Yeah, I’m chill, I’m good. I’ll send you the deets tomorrow morning. We’ve got tomorrow, Thursday and Friday off, so pack what you need. If you’ve, uh, got any ghost hunting equipment bring that too.”

“Alright. Allura’s gonna be happy to have the place to herself.” Keith pointed at Lance accusingly with his index finger, his eyebrows knitting together in a warning scowl. “No harassing her when you pick me up in the morning, got it?”

Folding his arms like a grumpy child, Lance scoffed at the demand.

“I never harass her, you dick,” he said, replicating Keith’s frown, “I merely compliment what needs to be complimented.”

“I swear to god, Romelle will murder you.” Lance paused at that statement, taking a moment to stare at the floor in thought, before zipping up his jacket and adjusting the backpack hanging off his slender frame.

“8:30 and not a second later.” he said, quick to change the subject, stretching his arm out in a friendly handshake. Keith followed through, his fingerless black gloves making a tiny rasping sound against Lance’s unnaturally smooth palm - even without touching his skin, Keith was aware of Lance’s almost ritualistic moisturising system. They shook hands, and a smile returned to Lance’s face.

“You say ghost, I say hunting! Ghost!” Lance shouted, disturbing a few nearby workers, as Keith stood before him, completely nonplussed.

“Uh… ghost hunting?”

“No, no, no, no, the cheer includes the instructions: I say ghost, and you say…” he leaned forwards expectantly, but Keith remained confused.

“Ghost… hunting?”

Bringing his hand to slap against his face in disappointment, Lance sighed heavily, before turning to walk towards the elevator that would take him down to the parking lot.

“We’ll work on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i probably won't update this for a little while as im in the process of numerous exams so if you enjoyed this chapter PLEASE BE PATIENT it is incomplete and it only goes downhill from here


	2. anyone sporting a mullet will be escorted into the gardens and put down like a feral dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LET'S GO LESBIANS

The journey home was relatively quiet. Rush hour was grinding to a halt, chaos making room for a low hum of activity. Cars rolled along the concrete at a languid pace, their drivers half-asleep behind the wheels. Buses were lit up like fairy lights, the passengers inside merrily conversing and tapping away on their phones. A few stragglers paced the hushed streets, grasping briefcases, satchels, backpacks and bags of shopping. A couple swung their daughter between each other, her tiny sneakers dazzling with rainbow flashes. Huddled beneath one of the bus stops was a group of around five teenagers, gathered eagerly around a boombox, one of the members passing around bottles of cheap alcohol. 

Multiple red lights left Keith ample time to appreciate the stars, the previous feeling of calm, so mercilessly destroyed by Lance, returning for an encore, the throbbing in his jaw the only sensation keeping him fully conscious. He had never gotten tired of the sky: how it could shift from a brilliant azure laced with pearly clouds on a summer’s day to being painted a lazy river of pinks and oranges, eventually allowing a deep ebony horizon to emerge and completely envelope the setting sun, lulling it into a blissful sleep while it hung a myriad of twinkling orbs in its endless embrace. It was positively breathtaking. Keith wished he could have met the God who created it; there was nothing in the universe that he was more grateful for.

At the third stop, his phone buzzed from where it lay on the passenger seat, filling the car with its harsh, artificial light.

‘GETTING CHINESE WITH ROMELLE. U WANT EXTRA CHICKEN BALLS???’ read the text from Allura, the notification banner blocking out the faces in the picture that served as his screensaver; in it, Allura had on a tight purple dress, wrists laced with multiple bangles, her ivory hair left to hang loose down her back. She had her right arm slung around Keith’s neck, a bottle of wine gripped in her hand, her left arm caressing Romelle’s hip, bright red nails matching the rose patterns on her girlfriend’s knee-length skirt. Keith himself was wearing a loose grey jacket, the collar popped upwards, and had his long, dark hair up in a ponytail. Two thick wings of black coated his eyelids (Romelle’s eyeliner, that she had been especially insistent on Keith wearing). That had been for Hunk’s twenty-third birthday last month at the Zodiac bar. 

Nearly everyone in the office was in attendance, alongside a multitude of outside friends. They had drunk until dawn, hundreds of dollars spent on fancy cocktails and bowls of fries. Keith vaguely remembered making out with the bartender while Allura and Romelle snuck drinks from behind the bar, a distraction that was well received by the drunken mass of party-goers. Lance was there too: he had been wearing a leather jacket with a blue lion stitched onto the back, an outfit choice that he was very eager to share with the utterly unimpressed female portion of the crowd. He had expected it to transform him into the paragon of charisma and coolness, able to attract any girl of his choice from miles away - in reality, all it did was amplify his awkwardness. Keith thought he looked cute, a compliment that Lance vehemently rejected. Smiling at the memory, Keith hastily messaged back a simple ‘yes please’ before the traffic lights changed. 

All the downstairs light were on in the house when his car finally pulled up to the driveway, gravel crunching underneath the tyres. Romelle’s immaculate blue land rover was haphazardly parked across the lawn. Stepping back out into the night air and trudging towards the entrance, he observed the vines clinging to the red bricks of the two-storey home. Multiple silver blossoms, almost matching the colour of Allura’s hair, had sprung up between the clutching tendrils, giving the front of the house a dotted appearance, as if it had sprouted freckles. 

Retrieving his key from his pocket, he slid it into the lock, a dull click resonating within the metal. He could hear the voices of his roommate and her girlfriend, accompanied by the clattering of porcelain and cutlery against wood. They were giggling at something Keith couldn’t hear, sounds muffled by the front door. His fatigue washed away, just a little, listening to them. He very much enjoyed their company.

Pushing open the door, Keith was hit with the addictive aroma of chinese take-away, a scent which prompted him to make a beeline straight to the living room, where Allura was finishing setting up plates on the coffee table, Romelle lying on the old sofa behind her, a tupperware box of stir-fry resting on her chest. An array of food sat atop the polished wood, enough to feed an entire family for at least a few nights - Keith locked eyes with his favourite spheres of battered meat, his stomach growling with furious desire.

“Hello to you too!” Romelle chuckled as Keith landed heavily against the beige carpet, grabbing multiple bits of chicken and dropping them on his plate without a single word. Lifting one to his lips, he wasted no time in sinking his teeth into it, shooting Romelle an exhausted glare.

“Excuse yourself, demon boy, I paid for those,” Allura added, swiping a ball before Keith could stop her, peeling the batter off of the greasy meat and dipping it into a small pot of yellow sauce half-hidden behind the towering white boxes of noodles. “And I plan on eating a few before you devour the entire bag.” She unwrapped a packet of plastic forks, passing one behind her head, which Romelle took and dug into her own meal, and throwing another across to Keith, giggling uncontrollably as it bounced of his forehead and fell to the floor. Keith tried to look angry, before he too devolved into a fit of laughter, positioning himself beneath the table to give Allura a light kick to the knee as punishment. 

Keith couldn’t fathom how many meals the three of them had had together over the years. Watching humanity evolve through the centuries was something that the supernatural creatures of the world relished in. It was fascinating to see how the mortal masses altered their technology, their languages, currency, clothing, everything they could to keep up with the development of the species. With the alteration of money, the occult were rich beyond belief, having hold of ancient gold coins, long-lost jewels and pocket change that inflated to thousands of dollars in cash. Advancements in medicine led to Keith’s lamp-lit evening performances of ‘Man Getting a Hole Drilled Into His Skull to Cure His Headache’ in 1342 changing to a detailed television showing of ‘Heart Surgery with Actual Professional Surgeons’ in 2009. But, above all else, the changes in cuisine were undeniably the most fulfilling for a ravenous half-blood demonic entity like Keith himself, and the two faeries together almost doubled his appetite.

He had met them both a few hundred years ago, during the first outbreak of the Black Death in England. As faeries were naturally inclined to do (more so considering Allura was the princess of her species), they had been aiding the citizens of Oxford, utilising their affinity for healing magic in an attempt to cure them of the dreaded pestilence. Keith, while not a fan of humanity in his early youth, respected their integrity and, sensing that their presence was anything but that of two normal human females, he soon introduced himself.

They were wary in the beginning. Of course, he didn’t blame them - demons aren’t notorious for being overly friendly individuals - but he was adamant on befriending them. Alongside hiding their magical ability, Allura also had to disguise her natural skin colour, her outward appearance resembling a young caucasian woman she had witnessed succumbing to the disease. She had always been the more accepting type towards Keith: she made an effort to speak to him once the pair noticed him following them, offering him food and water after long days of work. Keith figured her royal upbringing had instilled a strong sense of diplomacy into her. Romelle was a harder nut to crack, her attitude as uptight as the stiff bun she used to pull her golden hair into when treating her patients, old prejudices clinging to her like hungry leeches to a plague victim’s corpse. Nonetheless, by the time the sickness had been driven out of the country, the three had become firm friends, and had remained so ever since.

“So, what’s this I hear about ghost hunting? The plans were all over Lance’s Twitter feed.” Allura managed to cough out between her sniggering, taking a big swig of water from the glass before her, which she soon began to choke on, liquid cascading down her her magenta tank top as she spluttered. Romelle quickly slapped her on the back in an effort to clear her airways.

“Y’know how Lance was gonna go gho- can you stop dying, I’m trying to speak - go ghost hunting with Hunk?” Keith began, pausing for the two girls to nod in affirmation that they were listening. “Well, Hunk cancelled for some cooking thing and Lance asked me to go instead.” His heart thumped unusually rough against his chest as he spoke. 

“What about work?” Romelle replied, her fingers rubbing circles into Allura’s spine.

“He somehow got me the next three days off. I don’t know how he does it.” 

Allura, who had now stopped teetering on the verge of death, chimed in, flashing her pearly white teeth at the boy sat across from her in a sultry grin.

“Ooooo! You and Lance, together for three days… alone.” Her eyelashes fluttered dramatically, as if they were trying to take flight and escape into the night. 

“Oh, please. Allura, Lance is quite possibly the most aggressively heterosexual person I have ever met in my entire life,” Keith scoffed, rolling his eyes and taking another bite of chicken. “There’s more chance of a ghost deciding to humour him by roundhouse kicking him in the jaw than him so much as holding my hand.”

As one of his closest associates, Keith had witnessed the sheer power of Lance’s ability to avoid anything that could be regarded as intimate between himself and another male, and it was nothing but hilarious. No amount of memory loss could leave Keith without the recollection of when Lance asked a cashier to place his change on the conveyor belt to avoid touching his hand, or the time he dislocated Hunk’s shoulder trying to avoid a hug from the affectionate Samoan man. Sure, there were times when he would allow Keith to give him a quick squeeze, but it was McClain protocol to finish the gesture with at least four incredibly masculine slaps to the latter’s back to solidify that it was merely a friendly action between two “bros”. 

“But you wouldn’t complain if he held your hand?” Romelle said, now using her fingers as a hairbrush in an attempt to tame Allura’s knotted hair, like a dainty little monkey pruning her partner. Contemplating for a moment, Keith rested his chin on his gloved palm in thought.

“Dunno. He’s hot, I’ll give him that. But I don’t see anything happening between us anytime soon. We're best friends, that's all.”

With that said, the conversation devolved into leisurely chat, the two girls sharing the events of their day with Keith, who was soon displaying his finished sketches to his eager audience. The food quickly depleted, noodles and rice and chow mein and roast pork devoured by the esurient crowd, leaving behind nothing but empty containers and dirty styrofoam cups. Allura migrated to Romelle’s lap, Keith sneaking his way onto the opposite side of the sofa, long legs tucked beneath a spare blanket he had found hidden away under the coffee table. The moon had climbed further into the sky, illuminating the window panes with a silver glow, the television murmuring with the muted sounds of some ancient romcom. For a while they just sat and watched, marvelling at the surprisingly expert cinematography and well-executed plotline. Every once in a while the uncomfortable sensation would start up in Keith’s jaw, but he ignored it, focusing intently on the story unfolding before him.

The female protagonist was just about to admit her pregnancy to her husband when hushed whispers were exchanged beside Keith, causing him to turn his gaze to the couple sat adjacent to him, a quizzical look on his face alerting the two girls to their distraction.

“What’s up?” he asked, stretching his arms above his head, a satisfying pop resonating from his back. Allura and Romelle exchanged looks, an impish smile pulling at Romelle’s lips. With a sigh, Allura turned her body towards Keith, a posture which he knew meant she was demanding his whole attention. He sat up straight, mild concern visible in his eyes.

“No teasing, you hear me?”

“Teasing? What are you talking about?” 

“I’m-” she paused to bite her lip, a red hue burning her cheeks. She reached over to grab the remote, pressing the pause button for the TV, a blanket of silence smothering the room. Seconds ticked by on the clock. Opening her mouth to speak, she was able to release a small croak like that of an injured toad before Romelle grabbed her by the shoulders and rocked her violently back and forth.

“We’re going to her coronation!” the blonde screeched at a frequency Keith was shocked that he could detect, continuing to assault the girl precariously balanced on her folded legs. 

Keith’s jaw fell open in shock. His stare flickered between the two girls for a moment, the announcement slowly processing in his mind. 

Allura was being coronated. Coronated as the queen. Queen of the faeries. His best friend. Holy shit. Holy motherfucking shit.

Leaping forward without a second’s hesitation, Keith wrapped his arms around his roommate’s torso, mouth splitting into a delighted grin. The dizziness induced from Romelle’s ecstatic shaking mixed with Keith’s immobilising hug rendered Allura entirely incapacitated, but, judging from the mirthful chirps slipping from her lips between the chaos, she was happy with the reaction.

“Why would I tease you?! That’s fantastic!” Keith hollered, gripping his friend even tighter, grateful that faeries were able to withstand demonic strength. “When is it?”

A muffled response came from the amalgamation of limbs and cushions. They released Allura from their grasp, the smothered faery taking in a considerable breath of air in response to her freedom. Clearing her throat, she stood up from the sofa, collecting the discarded kitchenware and cardboard boxes that littered the table. Keith could see that she was still blushing.

“Romelle and I are leaving tomorrow. We’re gonna be gone at least a few weeks,” she turned back to look at Keith, a mischievous glint in her eye. “No naughty business while we’re away, okay? I don’t want to come back and see you’ve invited a harem of prostitutes round.”

Keith feigned disappointment, resting his hand against his forehead like a distressed damsel. “For you, esteemed monarch, I shall do anything you so desire.” he fell to his knees, kissing the carpet at her bare feet. Romelle leapt up from her position and accompanied him on the floor, the two of them making grossly exaggerated kissing noises. Allura sighed heavily, stacking the dirty porcelain and vanishing into the kitchen to deposit it in the sink, before returning to pull her girlfriend to her feet.

“Are you planning on cheating on me with the carpet or are you going to go home and pack?” she chuckled, pinching Romelle’s cheek. Romelle made an odd noise of content and moved closer to give Allura a kiss; Keith, still on the floor, groaned in disgust, which they both ignored.

“I guess I should go, it’s getting late,” she smiled fondly at them both, gifting Allura one more kiss and saluting Keith’s prone form. Taking her by the hand, Allura walked her to the foyer, whispering something into her ear as she opened the door and ushered her outside. Keith remained where he was, face-down on the carpet, listening to the purr of Romelle’s engine as it rolled off the lawn and into the night, fading away with the quiet chorus of crickets.

He heard the door click shut and the tip-tap of feet against linoleum. Hands and knees against the floor, he began to push himself back upright to go assist with the dirty dishes when a fresh wave of pain rushed back over him, enveloping his entire head in a whirlwind of agony. A tortured whine rose in his throat as his jaw began to burn harsher than it ever had before, as if someone was trying to shove a white-hot poker down his gullet, shifting teeth tearing ragged holes in his gums, rivulets of blood staining his lips a horrid crimson. He could hardly breathe, fingers frantically rubbing against his jaw in a fruitless attempt to massage the pain away. The anguish continued to thump against his skull for a minute or so until it suddenly dissipated, leaving the boy spitting out bloody saliva and a few clumps of flesh, a sudden bout of nausea causing his vision to stagger. 

Gripping the coffee table, he slowly pulled himself to his feet, squeezing his eyes shut to try and regain his focus. He could hear footsteps closing in on him from the other room. He stumbled backwards, arms reaching for the door-frame at the opposite end of the room, body moving unconsciously towards the stairs.

A voice called out to him, fearful. A strange sensation started up in his chest, like he’d been injected with adrenaline, an energising flower sprouting inside him, allowing him the burst of stamina he needed to reach his bedroom. He raced to the second floor, three steps at a time, slamming his bedroom door open and collapsing onto his bed. The voice, which he now recognised as Allura’s, was coming closer, ascending the stairs, but he didn’t respond, couldn’t respond, as fatigue grasped at his eyelids, heaving them down over his eyes and forcing him into the hazy realm of unconsciousness.

*****

_Bzzt Bzzt._

Something was buzzing. 

_Bzzt Bzzt._

Something was buzzing next to his ankle.

_Bzzt Bzzt._

Keith opened his eyes and immediately regretted it as the morning sun seethed through the open curtains, directly into his line of sight. A conga line of dust followed the sunlight’s path, dancing erratically to the vibrations sounding from the end of his bed. 

_Bzzt Bzzt._

It was his phone. He unwrapped himself from his twisted cocoon of bed sheets - they had somehow managed to hogtie him in his fitful sleep - and located the device, after it had alerted him of the time with another couple of buzzes. 

8:15am. Lance would be here soon.

The window had been left open all night, a slight breeze wafting the black curtains back and forth against the glass, filling Keith’s lungs with a burst of clean air. He forced himself out of bed, almost tripping over his nightstand, the impact sending worn pencils and post-it notes covered in doodles spiralling to the floor. Sliding his closet open, he pulled out an ancient suitcase, the yellow fabric faded and dull, and unzipped it, emptying it of lingering socks, shirts and a ball of tinfoil that uncurled to reveal a few mouldy sandwich crumbs. In one of the side compartments he found a folded-up jacket: it was an old one, only reaching his midriff, bright red in colour, barring the collar and cuffs, which were a clean white. Across the breast was a thick strip of yellow. 

A small knock sounded against his open door and he turned to see Allura, in an oversized lavender shirt, leaning against the frame, worry flashing in her sapphire eyes.

“Morning, your highness,” he teased, pulling off yesterday’s shirt and replacing it with a grey one of a similar style, deciding to leave his skinny jeans on - they’d been washed recently. He pulled on the discovered jacket, which only slightly hugged his shoulders, and stood up, suitcase in hand, ready to pack.

Allura didn’t answer. She simply stared, glare roaming across his entire face, looking for something Keith couldn't decipher. Even as he began to round up everything he needed, folding underwear and pajamas into small piles and cramming them inside, retrieving his toothbrush and other essentials from the adjacent bathroom, she just watched, arms folded across her chest.

“Erm… what’s wrong?” he asked, finally zipping up his suitcase and sitting down on the end of his bed. 

Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward, the atmosphere in the room freezing with icy tension.

“You’ve got blood on your mouth,” she said plainly, striding towards him before he could react and dragging him in front of his mirror so he could see the dried streaks painting his face in macabre lipstick. “And you left a lovely little bloody puddle of flesh on the carpet downstairs too.” 

He frowned and, dousing his fingers in saliva, started wiping away the ugly marks, tiny flakes tearing from his skin and fluttering to the floor like confetti. He had forgotten about that.

“Sorry, I had, uh, a bit of a problem last night but it’s fine, I’m good.”

“Uh huh. Sure, okay.” she replied, clearly not convinced in the slightest. It wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t a clue what was happening to him either; the pain he had endured the past four weeks or so was unrelenting, but it had never gotten as bad as it was last night. A metallic taste lingered in his mouth from the late-night fiasco. However, the thought of bailing on Lance made his stomach turn, not with nausea, but guilt - he wasn’t going to abandon him, especially after seeing how excited he was at the office. What kind of awful friend would he be if he did that?

“Are you sure you don’t want me to heal that scar?” Allura said, slowly rubbing her palms together, sparks sputtering into life between her digits, small green bursts of magic filling the room with a soothing emerald light. Keith looked at the scar in the mirror, reaching a hand up to caress the off-coloured skin: it stretched across his right cheek, a scorched cardinal river that flowed from his mandible to just underneath his eye. 

“Nah, I like the aesthetic of it. Makes me look threatening.” he said, puffing out his chest and flexing his muscles at his reflection. Allura laughed at that, her face breaking into a smile, as the magic between her fingers died down.

“The only thing threatening about you, Kogane, is that vile haircut.”

Keith shot her a stony glare. “The high council of mullets frowns at your impertinence.”

For a minute they just stood and laughed at the absurd statement, Keith relieved that Allura was no longer worrying, before a bolt of soreness surged through his jaw once again, causing to him let out an unceremonious yelp. His hands leapt upwards to cup his jaw, tears pricking his eyes. Fantastic.

“Alright, that's it, open up.” she demanded, poking his lips with her nail. Sheepishly, he opened his mouth, Allura wasting not a single second before she began digging around, prodding his canines and running her fingers across his gums, smoothing the clotted lacerations where his gums had torn. 

“Look how sharp these are… definitely had some growth here… the flesh is almost black there…” she muttered, expression hardening with concern.

“Keith, you absolute moron, you’re going through a Resurgence.” came the verdict, and Keith’s heart dropped to his feet. 

A Resurgence. It hadn’t even crossed his mind. Of course, how could he be so incredibly stupid? The evidence had been right in front of him, all week long, and he had never once theorised that he was undergoing another Resurgence. Goddamnit.

“There’s absolutely no way you can go ghost hunting with _Lance McClain_ like this. You’ll kill him! He’s terrified of _Romelle_ , how bad do you think he’ll get when he comes face to face with some evil spirit?! The fear could drive you insane!” she yelled, hands gripping his shoulders with such ferocity that he could barely pull away. 

He remembered back to last night, that incredible rush of strength he received from her fearful cries. He’d never moved as fast as he had racing up the stairs. If Lance reached the level of terror he usually did during his hunts, the results would be disastrous. Horrific. Depraved. Catastrophic.

She was right. She was always right. But, despite this, Keith still wanted to go, desperately wanted to go. Lance’s disappointed face blinked in the forefront of his mind, one of his signature grins twisting into a heart wrenching frown, voice lowering with sadness, shoulders drooping as he was turned away, trudging back to his car in silence. There was no way that was happening.

Keith knew he was being dramatic but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t going to let his best friend down, not over something so stupid as a Resurgence. He could control himself: he’d done it many times before. Sure, there had been deaths in the past, but that was when Keith was young, immature, when he didn’t entirely grasp control of his powers. It would be different this time. He would make sure of it.

“Allura, I’m going and that’s final.”

“What?! No, you are not!”

“Yes I am. Everything’ll be fine, I can control myself. I’m not a child anymore.”

“I won’t have you endanger Lance and yourself for some stupid ghost hunt, don’t be ridiculous!”

“Allura,” Keith whispered, laying a hand on her shoulder and giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Just trust me on this, okay? It will be fine. Lance is never that scared during his investigations, he just acts up for the camera. C’mon. We’ll be fine, I promise.”

She stared deeply into his eyes, pupils flickering across his own, her face completely devoid of any visible emotion. She reached up to grip the hand on her shoulder and returned the gesture, tightening her fist around his fingers. With a long, deep sigh, she closed her eyes, head pointed towards the floor.

“...Keep me updated. I won’t be able to leave this coronation, but that doesn’t mean you can keep me out of the loop. If anything, and I mean anything, bad happens, get him out of there.” 

Keith placed his index finger under her chin and lifted her head to look at him, meeting her gaze with a warm smile. 

“Please don’t worry. Enjoy your celebration.”

Pushing her hair out of her face, Allura quickly departed from the bedroom, heading in the direction of her own. It was obvious that she didn’t agree, but Keith had made his choice. Resurgence or not, the two boys were going ghost hunting, and they were going to enjoy it.

Keith had just finished tying his hair up into a ponytail when the doorbell rang. The sound of Allura plodding downstairs to answer it prompted him to grab his suitcase and meet Lance at the door. Tightening the purple hairband once more around his mane, he took the case in his hand and trotted down the stairs, being met with a mildly irritated Allura and a smug Lance, who had just shot his roommate with a pair of finger guns. He reached the base of the stairs, trainers against the wooden floorboards alerting the two of his presence. Lance’s face lit up, while Allura looked incredibly relieved, pushing Keith into the Cuban boy and out the door.

“W-woah! Uh, good morning!” Lance shrieked as Keith collided with him, the both of them falling straight out the house, feet scrabbling for grip against the gravel of the driveway. Allura stayed quiet, watching them resume their balance and greet each other accordingly.

“Did you get my text?” Lance questioned, hoisting Keith’s suitcase under his arm, watching Keith shake his head in response. “That’s actually a good thing,” he said, pulling the trunk of his car open and depositing the case inside. “Now you’ll get a big surprise when we actually arrive!” 

He motioned for Keith the get in the passenger seat, hopping into the front seat himself, the engine roaring with life. Keith took a step forward before he felt something grab his upper arm, twisting around to see Allura holding out a small velvet bag. Bemused, he took the package and peered inside: multiple blue-white orbs stared back at him, magical energy radiating beneath their glass covers, two buttons on either side of each sphere.

“Teleportation orbs?”

“You never know when you might need to... go see _him_. I know you haven’t met up in a while.” 

She suddenly lurched forward, enveloping Keith in a firm hug, her voice soft against the nape of his neck.

“Be safe.” 

Keith chuckled, hugging her back, giving her a few gentle pats on the back.

“That’s the aim.”

And so, they both retreated; Allura giving one final wave before she shut the door, Keith spinning back in the direction of the car, jogging to open door and stepping inside. He fell back against the plush seats, music already blaring from the speakers. Strapping on his seatbelt, he looked over to Lance, who was ready and waiting.

“Get ready, Keith, ‘cause these next few days will be some you’ll remember for the rest of your goddamn life! To ghost hunting!” he whooped, slamming his foot down onto the accelerator pedal, the car speeding out of the driveway and onto the road, the bushes lining the driveway veering backwards with the onslaught of wind.

“To ghost hunting!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goodbye lesbians :((((
> 
> yeehaw thank you for reading, i hope you enjoyed this chapter, kudos and comments are welcomed, please correct any grammatical mistakes i've made etc etc 
> 
> it might be a few weeks before the next update since i have a shit tonne of exams so please be patient!!!! thanks again


	3. horny old ladies want to know your location

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before this chapter even starts, i'd like to apologise for the GIGANTIC fucking gap between this chapter and the last. i had about a month of exams and then just... didnt write. for ages. so, i am tremendously sorry for anyone who has been waiting around, i hope this chapter suffices - i will try to get the next one out as soon as i possibly can! thank you so much for the kudos, youre far too kind, and, as always, comments are much appreciated :)

A single empty plastic bottle rolled back and forth beside Keith’s trainers, bouncing slightly as the vehicle travelled down the busy city streets. Morning rush hour was still in its prime, with people packed together like sardines in crowded buses, impatient drivers honking their horns without purpose and late stragglers rushing to school, heaving backpacks loaded with textbooks and stationery and teenage angst. The sun was steadily making its way up the clear horizon, accompanied by a warm spring breeze, the likes of which mingled with the strange aromas of the car through the open passenger-side window, filling the car’s interior with a warm, fruity breeze. 

Lance’s car smelt strongly of citrus and old McDonald’s fries. Keith was used to the smell by now, having frequented the vehicle for years during trips to the bowling alley, the mall, the club, various houses and more - that, however, didn’t make the scent any less distinct. Although the car was a few years old, the interior was relatively clean, curved fabric seats retaining not a single stain or spill, and there wasn’t a crumb to be found on the soft carpeted floor. The windows were spotless, allowing generous amounts of sunlight inside, giving both boys a healthy golden glow to their skin. Hanging from the rear-view mirror was an air freshener, in the shape of a grinning orange with comical googly eyes, and a small silver cross pendant, an accessory that Keith was very wary of, having accidentally brushed against it one time and been met with a lovely red blister on his shoulder. It hurt like a bitch.

The radio was on, generic pop music blaring from the speakers, Lance tapping his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel, lips silently mouthing the lyrics. He had on a loose fitting blue shirt, the words ‘hauntingly handsome’ emblazoned across the front in a large white font, and ripped black jeans. The same brown jacket he often wore had been thrown across the backseat, draped over the numerous bags of ghost hunting equipment. Not one to hide his excitement, Lance had been beaming from ear to ear since the journey began, and continued to do so the entire forty minute drive out of the city, only making excited shushing noises whenever Keith asked where the hell they were actually going. He had tried to check his phone for the so called “deets” Lance had texted him earlier, but the Cuban boy was adamant on him not ruining the surprise - Keith’s phone was subsequently confiscated. He had tried to distract himself with his sketchbook, doodling trees and dogs and cars, a sketch of Allura with an extravagant crown on her head, Lance in a fancy sports car, and a pair of leathery wings encircled by a burning halo. However, his head soon started to ache, as it always did when he tried to draw while in motion, and too many holes in the road led to his pencil flying haphazardly across the page, digging heavy lines of lead into the paper that refused to be rubbed off.

As such, Keith had no other choice but to stare out the open window, eyes lazily watching the scenery fly by. They soon passed their work building, the large neon sign, reading ‘Gunderson Games’, glowing dimly in the morning light. He recognised most of the cars parked in the reserved area, Hunk’s blue SUV by far the most noticeable in the far left corner, tucked away beneath the big oak tree where Keith usually took his lunch breaks.

Large commercial buildings and packed shopping centres soon melted into dainty private housing, cottages and bungalows that dotted the outskirts of the city dominating his view until they too vanished, slowly trickling into wide expanses of farmland and small puddles of thin forests. They drove across the highway, past fields of sheep and cows and pigs, past ordered rows of corn and wheat, past worn down farmhouses and barns with red paint peeling off the exteriors. Tractors rumbled down dirt paths, tyres kicking up an endless trail of mud in their wake, narrowly missing clean clothes strung up on lines and chicken coops filled to the brim with squawking hens and roosters. The rowdy ambience somehow managed to soothe Keith’s mind, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier with each passing second, music becoming muffled and faint, as if a thick blanket had been wrapped around his ears, the regular shudder of the car on concrete sending him off into a deep, dreamless…

A bump in the road caused Keith to jolt awake, heart thumping loudly in his chest. His breath caught in his throat, causing him to choke for a second, stunted coughs forcing their way out of his lungs.

“Good afternoon, sunshine.” Lance giggled, trying and completely failing to mask his laughter. Keith, sitting up in his seat, struck a quick punch against his thigh, before crossing his arms in annoyance. 

“Sunshine? You sound like your mom.” he responded. His voice came out strained and he coughed once more to clear his throat. “What time is it?”

Lance peered at the digital clock on his dashboard, blocky green numbers displaying ‘12:56’.

“About one o’clock. You were asleep for a while.”

“Didn’t feel like it. Christ, my neck hurts. How long till we actually get to this mysterious ghost town?” 

“Still a couple hours to go. We’re not too far now, you could get a few more minutes of beauty sleep. God knows you need it.” Lance couldn’t keep his laughter in any longer, a series of childish snickers slipping out of his mouth at Keith’s expense.

“Oh, fuck off.” 

Out of the window (now closed), they seemed to have entered an entirely new world: a world of sun-bleached grass and bone-dry dirt, inhabited by a waning army of skeletal trees. The wooden regiment lined the now two-lane road, gnarled roots seething up through cracks in the dusty concrete, featureless branches like blemishes against the blue sky; diseased fingers reaching, searching for an unlucky bird to skewer on their rotten nails. Keith half expected a few tumbleweeds to roll across the barren land or a wagon of cowboys to hold up the car and rob them. Cowboys were probably his favourite part of the 19th century - he wasn’t ashamed to admit he’d even teamed up with a few, before they all passed away of either tuberculosis or getting shot to shit in the streets by the local police force. Cowboys and Germ Theory. Those were the highlights.

He doubted Lance would be overly fond of them, even with his affinity for old Western films.

Now halfway through its usual journey, the sun sat contentedly at the top of the sky, heavy rays beating down upon the earth. The AC was on full blast, three separate fans pointed at Keith, yet he still felt the need to roll up his sleeves. A thin layer of sweat was beginning to form on his forehead and he absentmindedly wiped it away, reaching into the back to grab a bottle of water from underneath the mountain of bags. 

Taking a swig of water, a small collection of stained white objects caught his eye. They seemed to be spread out across a few metres, some big, some small, all covered in filth. Closer inspection revealed them to be bones of long-dead animals, littered around the brush like dirty clothes. 

“Wonder if we’ll get mauled by a cougar out here.”

A puzzled look flashed across Lance’s face for a second, his eyes darting from the road to Keith and back again. “What, you mean like horny old ladies? I haven’t seen any houses out here.”

Keith slowly turned his head to stare at his companion. 

“Huh?” he said, incredulous. Lance continued to watch the road.

“You said cougars. Y’know, old women who like young men,” he responded, oblivious, taking another moment to scan the surrounding area. “Still don’t see anywhere they would live, though.”

“Dude, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m serious! There hasn’t been a single house for the past thirty miles.”

Keith put his head in his hands, water bottle settling between his legs, and sighed. Heavily.

“I mean cougars as in the animal. Mountain lions. Panthers. Pumas. The big, wild cats.” he spoke into his hands, disappointment muffled between his fingers.

When he didn’t hear a response, he parted his digits to see Lance staring straight ahead, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“Oh.”

“You absolute dumbass.” Now it was Keith’s turn to laugh, controlled giggling quickly morphing into uproarious cackling, Lance’s face growing redder and redder with each burst of released laughter. It was a while before he managed to calm himself down, attempting to stop the onslaught of mirth by chugging a few more milliliters of water, which he subsequently choked on and spat all over the floor, bringing forth another two minutes of endless chortling.

Keith was wiping the merry tears from his eyes when Lance found the courage to speak again, his previous confidence diluted somewhat from the sudden loss of dignity.

“Laugh all you want, but don’t be surprised if I have to save your ass from a feral mountain lion trying to tear your legs off. I could do it.”

“You? Taking on a 200 pound wild animal? Sure you could. And I can fist-fight God.”

“Dude, any cougars _wish_ they could get me. I’ve fought off wild animals before, and I can do it again.” he responded indignantly, raising his nose in an act of superiority. Keith scoffed at the claim and rolled his eyes.

“Your mom’s tame housecat doesn’t count as a ‘wild animal’, Lance.”

“No, I’m dead serious. I got attacked by a wolf when I was like five. It came outta nowhere, growling like anything, and the next thing I knew it was running away with its tail between its legs and I was totally fine. Not a scratch on me.”

“You’re shitting me.” Keith said, still not convinced, but there was an undeniable sense of honesty in Lance’s words that he couldn’t brush off. They turned to look at each other, before Lance’s gaze inevitably switched back towards the road, and Keith knew by the hard look in his friend’s eyes that he was being truthful. Lance was a terrible liar on a good day, and he’d been riding a ghost-hunting induced high since yesterday. The idea of a toddler-sized Lance battling a hungry wolf was utterly ludicrous, bordering on unthinkable, but he said it with so much certainty that Keith couldn’t bring himself to disagree.

“I’m not!” he continued, signature smirk tugging at his lips once more. “We were on holiday, some religious place, and I wandered away from the campsite and into some woods and it came running right at me. I don’t remember exactly how it went down but, oh boy, did it go down. It’s not surprising really, I am an expert in all forms of martial arts.” And, the inflated ego was back in place, the boy now grinning broadly from ear to ear, running his fingers through his hair like he’d seen done in movies a hundred times - a fruitless attempt to look cool, Keith knew, but he was smiling all the same.

“My aim is spot on, with both my fists and any cool weapons I could definitely own if I wanted to. That wolf didn’t stand a _chance._ I almost feel sorry for it.” Lance clearly wasn’t done gloating, puffing up his chest like a proud eagle; a grand image against the dreary backdrop of broken nature.

“Okay, sharpshooter. How many times have I bested you while bowling?” That struck a nerve, an annoyed scowl knitting Lance’s brows together as he quickly scrambled for a comeback.

“Zip it, Kogane. I don’t wanna embarrass you, that’s all.”

“Right.”

Leaning back into his seat, Lance cupped his chin between his left index finger and thumb, visible contentment in his smile. “Sharpshooter,” he whispered, to nobody in particular. “I like that. Sharpshooter.” He repeated it in such a way that a passerby would assume he was referring to his newborn child, such a way that made Keith’s heart flutter with affection, just momentarily - he’d always enjoyed these moments of appreciation from Lance, even during their very first meeting as friends: the times where Lance would elicit such warm reactions from Keith simply by giving him a reassuring smile in times of anxiety, or a touching compliment on one of his sketches. The times where he truly felt that unspoken bond, that little string that pulled him towards Lance, whatever happened. He couldn’t explain it, and Lance probably wouldn’t understand it.

Keith had been alive for centuries. He’d met so many people, some of which he liked, some of which he despised; and, some of which, he loved. But he really, truly, had never been drawn to someone as strongly as he had Lance. They were made to be friends. Sometimes, Keith thought, it felt like destiny. Even if he didn’t believe in any of that divine intervention bullshit.

_Like a moth to a flame._

The sudden clicking of the indicator brought Keith out of his reverie. He looked outside to see the car turning off the two-laned road and onto a tiny road, barely big enough to accommodate the vehicle, that spanned about a mile in length. It closely resembled a row of blackened teeth, fissured and cracked after years of abandonment and misuse. In the distance, Keith could hear the familiar drum of a highway, a welcoming noise after the thick silence of the near-wasteland they’d been travelling through. 

The road was bumpy and littered with debris, dust billowing out from beneath the tyres. Both passengers wobbled in their seats, Lance’s knuckles white from clenching the steering wheel, Keith’s hands tightly clutching his seatbelt in an attempt to keep himself grounded against the tumultuous waves of dirt and potholes. 

A couple minutes of discomfort later, they emerged onto the highway, slotting quickly into the flow of traffic. More green was visible around them now, trees and bushes recently planted on both sides of the road. A large blue sign promised a rest stop a couple miles ahead, warning tired drivers to take a break, lest they put themselves and others in danger. Lance slid into the second lane, racing past the slower drivers in the first. He rolled down both windows, the wind roaring in their ears and blocking out the radio, reducing the music to a vague drone of unintelligible lyrics.

“You glad I masterfully persuaded you into coming with me?” Lance said, raising his voice so Keith could hear him above the rushing wind. 

“I still haven’t a clue where the hell we’re headed, and so far the most exciting occurrence has been me managing to get a couple decent hours of sleep,” he began, before seeing the exaggerated pout possessing Lance’s mouth. “But yeah, I’m glad.”

“You’re _so_ not ready for the investigation. This place has been said to be one of the most haunted places in America by the locals, yet hardly anybody knows about it. Do you know what that means?!” 

Keith shook his head. 

“It means the ghosts won’t have had, like, any interaction with humans! So, we’ll be a huge fucking shock, and get a massive reaction out of them. This is gonna be awesome.”

“Is that really how it works?” Keith questioned, though he already knew the answer. He hadn’t encountered that many ghosts in his extended existence, but most of them could not give less of a shit about humans. They were pretty relaxed as a whole (at least, the ones that weren’t terrified of demons were) and only ever partook in any hauntings for a little bit of mindless fun. Most ghosts that hadn’t been met with mortal interference for a while would likely just up and leave while the unwanted visitors were around, leaving the general creaking and groaning of the old houses they inhabited to scare the self-proclaimed “ghost hunters” into believing they had verifiable evidence of the supernatural. Of course, Lance was one of the aforementioned self-proclaimers, so his response wasn’t surprising.

“Uh, duh! That’s basic ghost behaviour, dude. You’ve got a lot to learn. Lucky for you, you’ve also got one of the best teachers in the whole entire-”

Keith never did get to hear the end of Lance’s spiel, his final words suddenly being cut off by the ear-splitting squeal of tyres against asphalt, followed by a string of panicked Spanish cursing. Another car in the third lane had decided to swerve dramatically towards them, the back end of the deranged vehicle just missing the bonnet of Lance’s car, causing him to yank the steering wheel harshly to the left, a movement that sent them veering dangerously close to a small car in the first, starting a chain reaction of frantic manoeuvring from anyone in the near vicinity. A cacophony of furious honking, of which Lance was a part of, rose up along the highway, travelling across all three lanes like a burst of heavy gunfire, the noise ricocheting from driver to driver until barely anything else could be heard. The perpetrator had zoomed off ahead, ignoring the wave of fury they had created, continuing to switch lanes in such a manner that they seemed to be experiencing a manic episode, before making a drastic turn onto a side path and disappearing from sight; Lance continued to repeat his rageful mantra, flipping the lunatic the bird just as they turned off the highway, completely unaware of the reaction from Keith, who hadn’t moved an inch throughout the entire altercation, eyes wide open in shock - however, for a wholly different reason.

A deep, ravenous desire had taken hold of him. Every inch of his person was gripped by a burning, desperate, itching, yearning want. A feral craving that reached down to the very depths of his soul. Twisting. Convulsing. Aching.

It warped his mind, erasing every thought, every emotion, leaving nothing behind but hunger. 

Hunger. Hunger and nothing more. 

Sharpened points wavered beneath his fingertips. Waiting. Impatient. The tiniest push would force them up, up through his skin and into the flesh of Lance’s throat, chest, stomach.

Anywhere. Anywhere they could reach. Anywhere they could reach what they so desired. What Keith desired. Oh, so hopelessly desired.

A heartbeat sounded in his head, pounding against his skull like a hammer, over and over and over again. It wasn’t his. It belonged to someone else. His prey.

He didn’t dare turn to face it. He didn’t know what he would see. A slab of meat. A sealed bag. A wrapped gift-box, begging to be torn open. Begging to reveal a delicious present, just for him. Begging to-

No.

No, that would not happen. Keith wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t allow it. Not now, not ever.

He wasn’t an animal. And Lance was not his prey. He was his friend. His best friend.

So, he fought it. His hands grasped at any solid surface he could reach, pushing harshly back against himself. Rooting himself to reason, to logic. Forcing himself into the muddy riverbed of his mind, directly against the rushing current of voracious fervour. 

Somewhere, somewhere above the murky water, a voice was speaking. It called to him, called his name. It was worried. Keith could feel it.

He continued his efforts, his brain screaming at him to give in, to embrace the hunger and claim his prize. He ignored it, banished it, as he tried to focus on that voice, the lifeline that would send him hurtling back to reality. 

He was almost there. He would succeed.

A highway. There was a highway in front of him. Outside a pane of glass. The sky was there too, accompanied by the sun and a scattering of clouds. He hadn’t noticed that they had disappeared. But they had returned to him. He could see them.

“..th!”

There it was.

“...ou okay?”

Lance. Lance was there.

“...ey, Keith?”

His brain buzzed, in pain and relief.

Stuttering, like static on an old TV.

“Keith? Bro, what’s wrong?”

Keith opened his mouth to speak: a strangled noise came out, his throat constricting.

“I need-” he choked, voice raspy and hoarse. His windpipe felt raw. Like he was swallowing nails.

“What? You need what?!”

“Stop. Can we stop?” he managed, slightly clearer. It was the best he could do. The hunger encased his throat, unrelenting. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. There’s a rest stop, just up ahead.”

Picking up speed, Lance drove ahead - for a minute or twenty, Keith couldn’t tell - and wheeled the car into a car park, past a luminous ‘Welcome’ sign. He reversed into a free spot and stopped, the force of the brake sending a shockwave through them both, the seat belt scratching Keith’s skin. 

“Are you good?” 

A gentle hand came to rest on his upper arm, and Keith lurched forward. A trembling whimper escaped his mouth. Lance’s lips moved, but before he could get a single syllable out, the boy beside him had unlatched his belt and flung the door open, spitting out a rushed “Bathroom.” before racing into the red-brick building up ahead. 

The automatic doors were only halfway open by the time he was inside, shops and kiosks on either side blurring into a hazy mess of colour as he ran, sickly yellow lights trailing behind him like an afterthought. A few patrons turned their heads to watch the panicked form sprinting past them, hot coffee and sandwiches wrapped in far too much plastic forgotten in their hands as they gaped at the odd spectacle. He dodged couples both old and young, past families laden with luggage, around obnoxious gaggles of teens and almost ran headfirst into a toddler, before ducking down a well-lit corridor and into the men’s toilets - thankfully, it was empty.

Shoes catching on the tiled floor with a nasty screech, he ground to a sudden halt and hurried into the first open stall. He locked the door and sat down heavily on the toilet lid, releasing a breath he wasn’t aware that he had been withholding. 

The ragged panting continued for a few minutes, the only noise keeping the silence of the deserted restroom at bay. Nobody came in, though footsteps could be heard shuffling outside, alongside the wet slap of a mop against linoleum. Probably a cleaner. 

Fuck was the only word that came to mind. Not particularly helpful, but fitting. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

What now?

This was exactly what Allura had warned. She was right. She was always fucking right.

“Oh, god.” Keith groaned, holding his head in his hands, still pushing back against the lingering urges. The ones demanding him to murder his best friend, to tear his flesh, to crack him open and absorb that delactable, sapid fear. Keith never remembered them being this persistent - though, to be fair, he hadn’t suffered a Resurgence since the 1700s. That was a long time to forget.

Forget the specific symptoms, that is. The deaths he remembered. No amount of time would cause them to be erased from his mind. It seems he was cursed to remember them: though names and associations were long gone, he could still see their corpses. There was so much blood, so much screaming. So much pain. 

Just people in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sure, it could be argued that at least a couple of them deserved it, but that never made the guilt lessen. For every victim that could be considered to have met their comeuppance, three more innocents had been slain.

Keith couldn’t bear to watch Lance become part of that three.

He balled his hands into a fist, ignoring the nails scratching his forehead, and squeezed. The feeling of needles beneath the skin of his fingers was gone, at least. No other unwanted appendages had sprouted from him either. That was good. Great, even. There’d be no way to explain those. 

Maybe it was just a one time thing? Resurgences were always strongest at the very beginning. He had felt the fear, right next to him, and snapped. That was to be expected, after such a long time. But he had controlled it, right? Lance was still alive. Keith hadn’t experience any physical changes. Everything was A-okay. 

_You were close, though. A few minutes longer, Lance’s blood would be staining the seats._

“No.” Keith muttered. His own mind was turning against him, it seemed.

_You were about to kill him. You still could._

“No.” he growled, as though repeating the word would cease the nagging in his head.

_You’re starved. It’s been so, so long. Nobody would be able to stop you._

“I said NO!” Keith jumped to his feet and kicked the stall door, a resounding crack echoing through the quiet bathroom. The lock had snapped clean off, but he didn’t care. Running towards the sink, he pushed on the cold tap, reaching over to splash water over his face. 

It burned against the heat of his skin, but managed to instill a well-needed shock to the boy. The voice had quietened, clearing his mind. He locked eyes with the reflection in the mirror and frowned. Though relieved to see a pair of eyes that were of normal human standard, his hair was a mess. Both sleep and panic had caused it to frizz, black strands poking up at random angles and slipping out of the tight control of the hair band that was desperately trying to keep them tamed. 

Lacking a brush, he pulled the hair tie out, raking his fingers through the mess as a poor substitute. Minor inconveniences were having a much greater effect on him than usual, and he quickly wrapped his hair back up into a ponytail before he could tear it out in frustration.

They couldn’t turn back now. They’d been driving all damn day and were close to their destination. Add that to the fact that Lance would be gutted if Keith suddenly cancelled, and there didn’t seem to be any positive alternative. 

Get in, ghost hunt, and get out. It seemed simple enough. Maybe Keith could utilise some demonic influence and scare away lingering ghosts? Not ideal, but effective. Lance would maybe ham it up for his camera, but fake fear wasn’t at all desirable. He doubted the place was truly haunted: how could it be ranked so high up on the humans’ list, yet have hardly any visitors? Probably just a creaky old house that used to home some creaky old people. Humans were fond of creating something big out of nothing at all. This mysterious place they were going would be exactly the same as all the other “haunted” attractions.

Right?

He leant against the sinks for a few more minutes, willing the hunger to disappear. It persevered for a while, snaking itself through his subconscious, mocking him, but eventually lessened. It still lingered, to his growing annoyance, but progress was progress. He couldn’t afford to mess up now. This was a one off, that’s all. The fear from the whole highway had caused it to surface, not just Lance’s. There were a lot of cars, with a lot of passengers. He could deal with his best friend having a mild fit in some abandoned house. He was stronger than that voice, he knew it. 

There would be no more accidents. 

*****

The sound of the car door opening brought Lance’s focus up from his phone, gaze zipping up to watch Keith slide back into the passenger seat. 

“You okay?” the Cuban boy asked, worry lacing each syllable. Keith reached back to put his seatbelt back one, before giving him a resolute nod. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just had a weird spell, ‘cause of the shitty driving.”

A smile found itself back on Keith’s lips at Lance’s reaction to the latter part of the statement, an offended frown forming on his friend’s face. Any remaining anxiety quickly dissolved.

“Hey! Don’t blame me for that shit, did you _see_ that asshole?!” 

“Relax! He was a dick. Almost ran us and about fifteen other people off the road.”

“I know! If it wasn’t for my expert driving, we would’ve been roadkill. You’re welcome.”

Keith smirked, reaching over to caress Lance’s face in a way he was absolutely certain would elicit a flustered response, free hand gripping the seatbelt dramatically.

“Thanks to my courageous sharpshooter. Oh, how lost I would be without you as my loving saviour!”

Lance swatted his hand away, a deep blush rising on his cheeks.

“Shut it, Kogane, or I’ll drive us into traffic.”

“Temper, temper!” Keith chortled, turning on the radio and tuning it to a bearable station. Music was constantly evolving, but the boring radio tunes stayed poor year after year. A couple of 17th century sea shanties were among his favourite tunes, but they weren’t quite well known in modern times. Society’s loss. The music distracted him from his thoughts, at least.

The engine roared back to life and the car pulled away from the parking lot. Now in its early stages of descent, the sun trickled at a snail’s pace down the horizon, the sky retaining its vibrant blue hue. Pencils rolled around the side compartment, tapping against each other and the visible pages of Keith’s sketchbook, leaving little black pockmarks next to his sketches. Unfamiliar birds flew overhead, chirping amongst each other. Keith was sure he had spotted a vulture too, eager to draw it once they were out of the car. Another good distraction, drawing. Hopefully they would spot some more the closer they got to their destination.

They were soon back onto the highway, racing down the third lane - the sudden stop seemed to have spurred Lance’s enthusiasm back to its original peak, his speed matching his jubilant urgency to arrive. As such, the next couple hours passed relatively quickly (with no more unfortunate incidents), and Lance was soon turning onto another tiny road, an ashy smudge in the distance soon transforming into something tangible - a compact town, much smaller than their home city, with various buildings dotted around long strips of pavement. 

‘Welcome to Kerberos, home of the Lotorian Manor!’ read the sign on their left. It was oak wood, tanned by the sun’s rays and chipped, the painted letters peeling and cracked. Two metal poles held the sign aloft, both entangled by snaking vines that seethed up through the broken earth. A crude drawing of an eagle decorated the lower left corner of the ancient wood, its beak open in a silent shriek. 

“Kerberos, huh? I recognise the name. There’s a pretty nice bar here, from what I’ve heard.” 

“Maybe after we’ve captured loads of awesome ghost footage, we can celebrate with some drinks!” 

Keith scoffed, failing to hold back a chuckle. “And I’ll be the one dragging you home, lightweight.” Lance reciprocated the laughter.

“That’s the best part! You’ll get a good workout carrying my incredibly toned body back to our hotel room.”

Rolling his eyes, Keith turned back to the front window. At long last, he could make out the quaint buildings up ahead as the car finally passed the town threshold: on the outskirts were rows of tiny housing, presumably no more than one-bedroom flats, painted a number of neutral tones, beige and taupe covering every inch of brick and wood; further inwards was a community of tight-knit shops, all sharing walls and roof tiles, glass windows displaying a range of products from produce, to second-hand clothing, to a variety of dusty books; the town centre contained a primeval fountain, green water dribbling half-heartedly down the slick cobblestone, into the stagnant pool below, lichen and moss dominating the surface of the water, with a post office to the left and the town hall to the right. Said town hall wasn’t particularly grand or ornate, simple wooden doors standing open to reveal a basic interior of official-looking desks and worn seating areas. 

They continued to drive further inwards, towards one of the larger structures, which Keith assumed was the hotel they were going to be staying at, passing more commercial buildings, including a newer-looking bowling alley and a multitude of both well-known and privately owned restaurants and coffee shops. The well-lit Starbucks and McDonald’s stuck out against the more austere establishments, bringing a sense of normalcy to the foreign place.

Just as Lance had said, the area was not at all busy: for a bright and sunny afternoon, surprisingly few people were milling about the streets. More could be seen inside various buildings, but none of the businesses they had passed were anywhere near full. A considerable quantity of cheaper houses they had passed looked deserted, some with doors boarded up, others with jungle-like lawns and shattered windows. 

Keith lost his focus on the surrounding area once Lance pulled into the hotel car park. A multitude of spots had been taken up, far more than Keith had been expecting from the scarce population. Pulling into a section nearer to the entrance, Lance killed the engine and stretched, the sound of popping joints audible all the way up his back.

The hotel building itself was, like the rest of the town, plain. Brown bricks made up the exterior, built up into a tall four-storey rectangle, translucent glass doors indicating the entrance. Over the doors was a lilac awning, slightly torn and covered in bird droppings. It was the only splash of colour, barring what Keith could see from inside the visible rooms; many windows hung open to allow red curtains to blow in the weak breeze. 

Lance was already shutting his door by the time Keith was out of the car, heading towards the back to fumble around with the bags, whipping out his wallet with a flourish after a few seconds of struggle.

“Ta da!” he flung his arms out to the side, careful to keep hold of the wallet, and grinned. Keith raised an eyebrow.

“That’s it?”

Lance dropped his hands, looking disappointed. He frowned at Keith, crossing his arms like a moody child.

“It’s nice! It’s a great shade of, uh… dirt? And the parking lot is very clean, definitely one of the better ones I’ve parked in.”

That was met with a withering glance from Keith, causing Lance to stutter and fall silent. Guilt flared in his stomach, so he gave Lance a playful jab on the shoulder. 

“I guess it’s not so bad. Not like there’s really any other options.”

They walked through the entrance together. The front desk was adjacent to the doors, adorned with a decrepit computer and the tiniest bonsai tree Keith had ever seen. A tired receptionist sat behind said computer, tapping away at the rickety keyboard, barely recognising their arrival. Lance went to check in, leaving Keith to observe the lobby. To the right were two corridors, one accessible only by keycard, the other leading into a dining room - a white sign nailed to the wall told of cheap breakfast for overnight visitors, decorated with pictures of cereal bowls and plates of various breakfast foods. A photo of a waffle drizzled with chocolate made his stomach growl. 

Three vending machines stood stoic on the far wall, a much larger plant, leafy and green, sitting in a black pot beside them. He felt around in his pocket for change and, finding a few pennies, headed towards the middle machine. After some button pushing and appropriate payment, two caramel chocolate bars fell to the bottom, which Keith swiftly grabbed, unwrapping and biting into one, leaving the other intact. 

“Keith, c’mon!” 

The black-haired boy walked back over to the counter, where Lance was flashing a keycard labelled ‘Room 42’. Thanking the receptionist and happily taking the remaining chocolate bar, Lance scanned their room key on the digital lock on the closed door. It opened, revealing a carpeted corridor. Right at the very end was staircase and elevator, and lining the walls were numerous numbered doors, ranging from ‘1’ to ‘10’. 

“We’re all the way up top.” Lance motioned towards the end of the corridor. 

“Well, what’re we waiting for? Let’s go.”

*****  
It was a little past five by the time they were prepared. Tedious journeys back and forth from the car to the room had been spent transporting luggage and equipment, all of which now rested in either the room’s wardrobe and drawers or behind the provided seating, arranged in a neat pile.

The room itself was cosy, definitely more welcoming than the hotel’s exterior would make you presume. Opposite the door was the aforementioned drawers and wardrobe, pressed tightly together beside a window, one of the two that displayed a view of the northern end of the town. Both had been hidden behind long red drapes, held up by a gold-coloured metal rod. The second window was further along the same wall, adjacent to the two double beds on the far left side: both were adorned with fresh white sheets and two pillows, of ‘average fluffiness’, as Lance had proclaimed in passing, pressing his palms into the fabric of his pillows briefly in some mock quality assessment. Keith had responded by launching a spare one at his face, and promptly sprinting from the room before he could be assaulted.

In the centre of the room was leather sofa, big enough to fit two people. It faced the right wall, where a television had been mounted. A flick through the available stations had revealed a sparse list of channels; they would have to settle for old reruns of ‘The Great British Bake Off’ and Gordon Ramsey’s ‘Kitchen Nightmares’, which in all honesty wasn’t too bad. A second door by the wardrobe opened into a bathroom, containing a bath-shower fusion and a toilet facing a sink and large mirror. The tap was leaking, a constant dripping audible when the door was left open. 

Keith had taken a couple minutes to further observe the town from the window. As the buildings continued north, they began to improve, growing larger and more spacious, with long green gardens and multiple stories. Right at the very end of town was a gated community, containing four of the biggest houses he had ever seen. They faced each other, two on each side, cut off from the rest of society by both the gates and an expansive field, in which a sizeable river flowed through. A stone bridge could be seen, connecting to two roads: one leading into the gated area, the other snaking all the way around it, towards a place that Keith could only describe as a mansion. Due to the distance, he couldn’t quite make out any details, but the size alone made the other houses look like cheap apartments. 

The Lotorian Manor. That was what they had travelled all this way to see. Frankly, he was impressed. It certainly looked the part, from what he could discern. His musing was soon interrupted by Lance, who had appeared and started nagging him to keep moving. He had done as he was told.

Finally shutting the door with an unnecessary amount of force, Lance spun round to face Keith, who was now sat cross-legged on the bed closest to the window. He jogged behind the sofa, grabbing one of the smaller bags, and dropped it onto his bed, before kicking off his shoes.

“So.” he whispered, sitting down next to the bag. Keith positioned himself to face him. 

“So?”

“So!” 

“Spit it out, sharpshooter. I’m all ears.”

Lance went to speak, and then stopped. His eyes had dropped to the floor, stare flickering between the two beds; a nervous glance. Keith frowned.  
“What’s wrong? Is there a bug or something?”

Lance motioned with both his hands, bringing his palms together and apart, together and apart, in the direction of the space between the two beds

“I don’t speak mime, just tell me what’s up.”

The brown-haired boy sighed. 

“Do the… do the, uh, beds seem a little too…?”

“Little too what?” Lance began motioning again, to Keith’s chagrin, a bead of sweat forming on his temple. It took a second for the penny to drop.

“Too close?” That elicited a nod. “Move them apart then, Mr Melodramatic, without the useless bravado.”

Smiling sheepishly, Lance moved to push his bed, not stopping until it had hit the wall. 

“Wow. I’m that bad to be around, huh?” Keith teased, smirking at the blush that rose in his friend’s cheeks. 

“No! No! No, I didn’t mean- you’re fantastic to be around! I just though-” came the stuttering rebuttal, the red becoming more and more visible as Lance scrambled for an adequate response. Keith was laughing now, leaning back on the bed with his hands to prop him up.

“Lance. Chill. I’m just fucking with you.”

“Fuck- fucking with me?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, get on with your ghost stuff or I’m going to fall asleep again.”

Taking a second to compose himself, Lance reached his fingers over to unzip the bag. The contents were removed one by one, handled with a high level of care. This was serious stuff, to Lance at least. Out came an expensive camera, an EVP recorder, a ouija board, and a grey circular device that Keith didn’t recognise. The appearance of the board made him chuckle, and he subtly pointed his finger towards it as Lance spoke, wiggling the planchette. Ouija boards were hilarious to demons: they were a perfect way to easily fuck with people. Keith had been a visitor to many over the years, sometimes directly involved with the people doing the seance, sometimes the demonic figure “possessing” the board. All he had to do was influence the planchette and draw some figure eights on the wood and everybody would flip their shit. It was brilliant.  
“This bag here, my dear Kogane, contains my most precious investigation tools.” his voice was grandiose and exaggerated - Keith once more had to ask him to drop the theatrics and just get on with it.

“Okay, okay. So, first up, we’ve got my best camera.” he held it tight, turning it round in his palms to display every angle. “This will get us crystal clear footage of any supernatural happenings and hauntings. Very valuable to the investigation.”

“Next, we’ve got the EVP recorder. There’s two of these, so we can both record any quieter voices and sounds that our own ears might miss during all of the fun, and then analyse the audio later to see if we’ve got anything good. Obviously,” he reached towards the ouija board then, and Keith quickly dropped control of the planchette. “The ouija board is a ouija board. I’m sure you know how it works.”

 _I’m sure I do_ , Keith thought, biting his lip to stop him from incriminating himself. Maybe he could work his devilish magic during the investigation?

_Just to spice things up._

“And, finally, we’ve got my absolute favourite device: the spirit box!” He held the circular device for the heavens to see, and then subsequently threw it at Keith, who nearly dropped it directly onto the hardwood floor. 

“Spirit box? What does it do?” he said as he began to fiddle with it, looking for a switch or button to press on the sleek surface.

“Spirit boxes scan through different radio channels at a fraction of a second, generating a loud static noise. It’s believed that ghosts can manipulate that static to form words, short phrases, even sentences, to communicate with us. Isn’t that awesome?”

“I guess. But how do you know the words aren’t just from some radio station?” Keith asked, genuinely curious. Lance opened his mouth to respond just as Keith found a little switch on the underside of the box. Without thinking, he pressed it and the following noise almost caused him to launch it into the wall. 

“Fucking hell!” he yelled, jumping at least 3 feet into the air, frantically trying to relocate the switch as a horrendous screech tore out of the machine. It was like a million nails were being dragged down a chalkboard, or the halted roar of a malfunctioning robot. The switch to turn it off seemed to have dissolved into the metal, Keith’s frenzied digits scouring every inch of the thing and finding nothing. He didn’t want to resort to punching the damned thing, not since Lance had displayed such fondness for it.

“Press the switch, dude!” Lance yelled, covering his ears. For a moment, he allowed Keith to continue his fruitless search for the off button before he took matters into his own hands, yanking the spirit box from his grasp and expertly disabling the metallic screaming.

“What the _fuck_.”

“The switch is right there!” Lance yelled, pointing out the tiny little lever. Keith frowned and made a very rude gesture at the box, prompting Lance to put it away. “And you call me a drama queen.”

The items were put back into the bag, zipped up tight and returned to the pile, neither of them keen on setting off anymore equipment. A noise complaint after an hour of being there would be majorly embarrassing. 

The plan was to start their hunt once night had fallen - Lance was adamant on “immersion” and “the proper success criteria” of true supernatural investigations, and Keith didn’t care enough to change his mind. Tonight was to be an overall tame start, only utilising the equipment in the previous bag, to introduce the ghosts to their presence and technology. A boatload of evidence wasn’t to be expected on the very first night, and it was normal to not receive any concrete documentation at all. 

Lance was very particular about how things were to work, which was quite impressive. He wasn’t a very serious guy, not with his inflated ego, melodramatics and tendency for choosing fun over work, so to see him acting professional and focused was a rather pleasant surprise. Keith was proud of his friend’s passion, even if he thought it was kind of dumb. 

They settled on watching episodes of ‘Kitchen Nightmares’ until sunset, during which Lance informed Keith of the background behind the infamous Lotorian Manor. 

Back in the 18th century, the house had been owned by the esteemed and wealthy Galra family, comprised of the landowner and only descendent, Lord Zarkon, his wife, Lady Honerva, and their young son, Lotor, the manor’s namesake.

The family had essentially built the town of Kerberos, funding local builders and businesses to create a quiet, idyllic society away from other big cities. Their presence and money encouraged other wealthy families to move to Kerberos, as well as job-seekers and those looking to start up brand new businesses, such as restaurants and cafes; the likes of which Keith had spotted near the town centre during the drive to the hotel. Farmers also rented the fertile land surrounding Kerberos, supplying the area with fresh, organic produce, as well as creating more profit for the Galras. 

However, tragedy struck after two decades of success. Lord Zarkon passed away of unknown circumstances, leaving Lotor and Honerva to keep up appearances. Lotor soon committed suicide, and Honerva died of grief not long afterwards. Their deaths saw the end of the Galra bloodline, and all remaining funds were donated to the town. The locals attempted to profit off of the manor as both a remnant of a historic family and a haunted attraction: unfortunately, the majority of visitors didn’t feel that the house was truly possessed by the lingering spirits of the family, and said locals suddenly refused to step foot inside the place, whispers and rumours dominating the populations’ opinions regarding the manor. A few ghost hunters had reached a similar conclusion on supernatural activity in the manor to that of the town, but they weren’t taken seriously. 

“I thought you said it was one of the most haunted places in America?” Keith said, bemused, once Lance had finished his history lesson, slouching into the cushions of the sofa they had long since migrated to. 

“Okay, maybe I was exaggerating a bit, but the website had all the facts! People just choose to ignore them based on some popular supernatural fanatic’s opinion. They don’t even bother to look for themselves, it’s so dumb.”

“Rumours, not facts.”

“Whatever you wanna call it. The people here think it’s so haunted that they refuse to go inside. That kinda reaction doesn’t pop up out of nowhere, especially when they had already tried to make some serious bank off of it.” His logic wasn’t unreasonable, but Keith was still unsure.

“Rumours in small towns can go pretty far, y’know.” That much was certainly true - he’d seen it hundreds of times before. Hell, he’d been the one to spread the rumours occasionally. People were easy to manipulate and the ensuing pandemonium was brilliant fun. Allura wasn’t fond of it, but Keith had managed to get Romelle involved from time to time. He didn’t see much issue with it: the rumours were never really that severe, just that the orphanage matron was secretly one of God’s newest disciples, or that the baker’s son had pissed in the bread dough. 

“Yeah, well we’re gonna take them so far that we can prove, without a doubt, that the place is infested with ghouls. Just you wait. If we can crack this, we’ll be fucking famous.”

Lance was back to dreaming about fame and fortune - Keith could practically see the dollar signs in his eyes, shining gold and silver. 

“Calm down, Beyonce. Don’t get yourself all excited, because if we don’t get anything, you’re gonna be upset. Remember that time you said you were gonna break the world record for highest quad bike jump and you passed out before you even started the engine?”

“I was sick!” came the reply.

Keith rolled his eyes. “With nerves.”

“Oh hush.” Lance said, quick to change shut down any further teasing. Keith obliged, bringing his chin to rest between his thumb and index finger, suspicion visible in his grey eyes. Something didn’t sit right with him, paranoia churning his insides.

“You said the locals won’t go in, right? Are you sure it’s only ghosts in there?”

“Yeah, I’m certain. There wasn’t any mention of any other supernatural creatures. I wouldn’t be too eager if there was, I mean, you know I don’t do demons. No way.” He crossed his arms in an ‘X’ to emphasise his words, and the words stung. 

Keith wasn’t shocked, of course. He’d heard it all before, and oftentimes it was quite entertaining how strong the fear of demons resonated within Lance - and, to be fair, he himself didn’t really do demons either. There was a reason he never visited home. They weren’t the nicest crowd, not by a long shot. Still, that didn’t make the insult hurt any less. He wasn’t overly fond of being reminded that he was considered a horrific beast by a great number of living (and nonliving) things. Definitely not a booster for self-esteem, that’s for sure.

Choosing to ignore the impending sadness, Keith forced a laugh, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Me neither. I’m just being a bit paranoid, that’s all.”

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, Lance giving him a reassuring squeeze. The gesture was rewarded with a grateful smile. 

“Don’t worry, buddy. You’re in the hands of an expert! There’s nothing to worry about.”

 _Nothing to worry about_ , Keith mused, pulling his feet up onto the seat and holding them there with arms. _Absolutely nothing to worry about._

The heavy ball of doubt in his stomach persisted, distracting him throughout the duration of the next four episodes of ‘Kitchen Nightmares’. It was still there once the television had been switched off and equipment had been assembled. It was still there when they stepped outside, the chill night air scratching at their uncovered flesh and hands. It was there for the twenty minute drive to the manor. And it remained there, unwavering, curling underneath his skin, causing him to tremble far more than the cold breeze ever could. 

Lance’s words swam around his head like a broken record. 

_There’s nothing to worry about._

The car crossed the bridge that split the town in two.

_There’s nothing to worry about._

They followed the divided road, past the four big houses. Some lights were visible in the windows, soft amber hues.

_There’s nothing to worry about._

They took a left, the intimidating structure towering above them. Watching. Waiting.

_There's nothing to worry about._

Oh, how wrong he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these fucking idiots


	4. ghost hunting more like anxiety attack haha amiright ladies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bro its been 4 months since the last update i am so goddamn sorry heres this mess that i still think is incomplete but fuck it we ball i hope this suffices as a good christmas present for any of you that have stuck around waiting for my dumb ass to finish the chapter. anyways
> 
> hope you have a merry christmas/happy holidays! and i really appreciate any and all support from you :D (ps if the next chapter isnt out by the beginning of february you are all legally obligated to come to my house and beat the shit out of me) okay thank you goodnight

The Lotorian Manor was enormous. 

Standing in the hotel room, looking out towards the huge blot of a building on the horizon had been an awe-striking experience, but staring up at the colossal mass of stone and marble was truly intimidating. It commanded respect, the figurehead of the town, stoic glass eyes surveying each and every corner of its own hidden world. Even with the former inhabitants long gone, the ruler of this quaint kingdom was obvious. Here it had stood, for hundreds of years, practically impervious to the elements, evident by the incredible lack of visible damage or wear. The last surviving member of a once great lineage; a lone sentry, destined to forever stand guard against a threat that would never arrive.

The manor was almost beyond articulation. Arcades encircled the courtyard, a regiment of exquisite masonry and smooth arches, vines coiled tightly to the supporting columns. Perfectly maintained, the garden was a picturesque blend of roses, magnolias, bluebells and more, intermingling yet not invading, twinkling spots of colour in the pale glow of the moon. Trimmed bushes took various shapes, curling and twisting around the flowerbeds, tiny points of pink and purple noticeable between the emerald leaves. On one side sat a sizeable pond, shaded by the long fronds of an aged willow tree and sprinkled with a gathering of lily pads - they drifted across the water’s surface, buffeted by the breeze, lustrous white petals like natural cocktail hats sat atop the dewed pads. The soft grumbling of hidden frogs could be heard in the wind, mild reverberations that danced alongside the whisperings of the wind. Apart from the perpetual chirping of crickets and the occasional hoot of an overhead owl, there wasn’t a single other sign of sentient life in or around the structure. It was as if it had been frozen in time, wrapped up in a bubble and left behind by the rest of reality, able to do nothing but sit still and stare. 

A sea of well-worn cobblestone spanned the length of the courtyard. Just one road allowed entry to the property, big enough for a single car to travel across. In the centre of the circular space was a fountain, much more extravagant than the one in the town square - three stone fairies stood together, wings open wide and connected at each tip, intricate patterns meticulously carved across each one. They held small trumpets up to their lips, allowing for separate streams of clear water to trickle out of the bells and into the pool below. Koi fish swam serenely in between the fountain’s aquatic foliage, vibrant reds and oranges and yellows giving the water a captivating sheen, as if someone had dropped a pot of jewels in. 

And, in the middle of it all, was the manor itself. Made up of deep crimson bricks, the stately home dwarfed its two guests by three storeys, with an additional attic space at the very top. Numerous balconies stuck out every side, held up by florid pillars of black marble, each allowing for a beautiful view of the surrounding fields and land. Tall windows covered the walls of the structure, the contents of the interior hidden away by long, velvet drapes. Grey roof shingles had managed to remain in straight lines, unperturbed by years and years of wear. It was mesmerising. Someone had to have been maintaining the manor, either that or the Gods had been lending a hand in keeping it in shape. Everything looked practically brand new. 

Keith had to take a minute to marvel at the place, a foot still inside the car, both gloved hands gripping the open door as he stared, dumbfounded. For just a moment, the paranoia he had felt on the car ride over had morphed into an absurd feeling of surrender - part of him wanted to bow down before the entrance and kiss the front steps as a show of respect, ludicrous as that was. The sensation didn’t last long, Lance’s immediate presence made sure of that. The sound of him rustling around in the trunk caught Keith’s attention, and the anxiety came flooding back.

Fully exiting the car, he quietly shut the door and moved to meet Lance at the trunk of the vehicle, where he was pulling equipment out of the singular rucksack they had brought for the first investigative stage. An odd-looking harness, incredibly thin and with a little pouch sewn onto the front, sat by the bag. Lance already had one strapped to his chest, pulling his jacket over top, and gestured for Keith to put the free one on himself. 

“These are for the EVPs.” he explained, both of the petite rectangular boxes held in his left hand. In his right was the camera, already turned on and fully charged, which he placed on top of the black rucksack containing all the necessary items for the hunt. Keith’s phone had finally been returned to him, alongside the very specific orders of ‘if shit goes down, we need all the angles we can get’. “I’ve learnt that it’s way easier to carry them around with these, especially since the audio never gets muffled.”

Slotting into place with a timid click, the harness hugged Keith’s frame in a way that wasn’t particularly comfortable, but not really uncomfortable either. His EVP was quickly in place, fastened with velcro and an accompanying string for extra security. 

_ If only there was something to keep me stable during this _ , he thought, unable to stop his rattled nerves from interrupting. Each second standing around outside further ramped up the tension he was feeling, even with Lance remaining relatively calm so far. His stomach was churning, regular butterflies replaced with a stampede of terrified bulls, ravaging his insides and reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything today apart from some measly vending machine chocolate bar; additional hunger that most definitely wouldn’t help his predicament. 

Irritated grumbling from his companion caught his attention in that moment and he looked up to see Lance fiddling with his own EVP. It was refusing to sit properly in the pouch, repeatedly slipping out, back into Lance’s waiting hands. To add insult to the injury, the string was knotted, wrapped uselessly, yet tightly, around a section of the harness. Keith instinctively moved forwards to help, bringing himself right into Lance’s bubble of personal space to sort out the brewing issue. He’d known him for too long not to, fingers reaching up to banish the knot first. 

“Here, I’ll fix it.”

He leaned in close to reach the string, bending down slightly for a better view. Fingers brushed against Lance’s chest as he grabbed the knot, pulling back the harness with one hand to properly assess the situation and find the best course of action for untying it. However, just as he was about to begin, he froze. Worry surged in his throat, hands began to tremble, as he heard a sharp intake of breath from the man before him, a breath which audibly shook and wasn’t released, causing Lance’s body to tense. 

Risking a glance upwards, Keith attempted to meet Lance’s eyes, but he wasn’t looking down at him - instead, he was staring off into the distance, a weird, almost embarrassed expression on his face. Keith dropped his stare. He was about to abandon ship when he realised something strange: the hunger wasn’t there. No voice in his head either. Lance wasn’t scared. There was no fear.

His eyebrows knitted together in a confused frown - what was that, if not fear? 

Granted, there wasn’t a clear, logical reason why Lance would suddenly become petrified from Keith fixing his EVP, but what other explanation was there for that reaction? Did his Resurgence only sense large amounts of fear? Had he built up a resistance to menial amounts?

No, that wasn’t plausible. The voice in his head wanted anything it could get Keith’s hands on. If Lance was scared, he would know. He would be hungry. 

So why was Lance acting strange?

“You okay?” he questioned, hands hovering beside the string. Lance swallowed loudly.

“Uh-huh.” he responded, seemingly infatuated with a nearby bush. 

Keith coughed, though there was nothing in his throat. “Just checking. This’ll only take a second.”

Hesitantly, Keith’s hands returned to the harness and string, digits moving quickly to remove the knot and unravel it. He then moved on to securing the EVP, but froze once more when he felt the erratic thumping heartbeat from inside Lance’s chest, his knuckles almost vibrating from the sheer force of the beats. He braced himself against the inevitable onslaught of ravenous desire, ready to jump back if necessary; anything to ensure Lance’s safety. 

But there was nothing.

“Huh?” Keith whispered without thinking, utterly perplexed. What the hell was going on? Why was Lance exhibiting all these fearful reactions, yet Keith wasn’t trying to tear his throat out? There was no way his Resurgence would be over already. It had only just begun. The only excuse he could conjure up was excitement, but why would Lance be consumed with jittery exhilaration while he was getting a metal box strapped to his chest? They hadn’t even entered the manor yet. It didn’t make an ounce of sense.

Unable to do anything but ignore his bewilderment, Keith finished the job and took a step back, watching for any unwanted movement from the device. When it stayed firmly in place, he allowed himself a small smile, and once again tried to make eye contact with his buddy - a fruitless attempt. Lance was adamantly refusing to meet his gaze, fists clenched at his sides. He was biting his lip, harshly. Keith’s smile faltered. The awkwardness of the situation was dawning on him, so he reached forwards once more to brush some dust off of Lance’s shoulders. The brown-haired boy snapped to attention then, the sudden movement causing Keith to flinch back. 

“Uh… gotta make a good first impression on the, um, on the ghouls.” he stuttered. Why was he stuttering? And why was Lance staring at his hands like that? What the fuck was going on?

“...Yeah. Yes. That’s a- yes.” came the illuminating and articulate response.

_ Thank you, Lance. _

Keith cleared his throat, pushing his hands into his pockets, his fingerless gloves making a tiny rasping sound against his jeans. He rocked back on his heels for a moment, eyes flickering around the area before returning to the person in front of him. 

“What about me?” he said, finally, and Lance made a choking noise.

“What- what about you?” his voice was uncharacteristically timid. 

Gesturing to his EVP, Keith continued.

“Is my equipment on properly? You’d know better than I would.”

“Oh!” Lance exclaimed, louder than was necessary. “Oh. Right. The EVP’s fine. You’re good.”

“And I fastened yours properly?”

“Yeah. Thank you. For that.” This was getting ridiculous. 

“Shall we begin?” Keith managed to mutter, sarcasm lacing every syllable. Satisfied with the nodded response, he twisted in the direction of the manor and trudged up towards the entrance, Lance pausing to lock the car and grab his things before trailing behind. 

Two ornate doors made up the entrance, spanning ten feet in height. A large ebony padlock kept the doors tightly shut. A key was pulled from the depths of the rucksack that was slung from Lance’s shoulder and slotted into the padlock, a few heavy twists eliciting a resounding metal click as the padlock opened. 

“Where’d you get that from?” Keith questioned, pointing at the heavy, rusted key Lance was holding. His friend grinned sheepishly, not hesitating to slip the key into his jacket pocket and out of sight.

“I, um, kinda bought it from some unlisted website. Really cheap, and, hey! We obviously didn’t get scammed, ‘cause it works!” Lance said, laughing woodenly to soften the blow.

Keith stared, incredulous.

“You  _ what _ ? A shady website?! So, that’s it, we’re trespassing then?”

“No, no, no, no!” Lance shot back. “It’s not trespassing if we’ve got the key… right?”

“Oh my god.”

“We’re fine! Nobody’s even gonna be here!”

“If we get arrested…” The threat was clear, though Keith wasn’t really being serious. He’d actually gotten arrested quite a few times - however, not in the 21st century. Being a demon with no responsibilities was fun until Hell refused to send the clean-up crew to get you out of the county jail. He’d even had to rely on Romelle and Allura a few times to get him out, which they did, either through bribery or through force; afterwards he’d have to deal with them yelling at him for a few hours, which was never enjoyable. Prison wasn’t terrible, just excruciatingly boring. 

After another minute of panicked reassurance from Lance, the two of them, in unison, pulled the double doors open and stepped inside. The investigation was about to begin.

*****

Inside it was dark. 

Very, very dark. 

Luckily for Keith, he had managed to pick up the ability of night-vision from his mother, so wasn’t affected by the solid, murky, all-consuming blackness that his unfortunate partner was experiencing. He turned to see Lance trip on nothing, narrowly stopping himself from falling over. Struggling for a second, he pulled the rucksack around to his front and rooted around inside, careful not to drop the camera he was holding, finally retrieving a single flashlight. A button was pressed and a meagre beam of sickly yellow shot out from the bulb, barely strong enough to penetrate the overbearing gloom. A second flashlight, connected to the camera, was switched on too, allowing some visibility to the footage, the viewfinder now displaying a crisp picture of the floor.

“There we go, we can actually see where we’re walking. And holy shit, look at this place!” 

‘Holy shit’ indeed. If the manor’s exterior was grand, the interior was bordering on ostentatious. Though a blanket of dust covered nearly every surface in the room, dulling the fabrics and giving the furniture an ill look, the rich materials and decorations glimmered in the torchlight like they were brand new. An enormous staircase, guarded by a pair of bejeweled suits of armour, stretched up towards the second floor and then split halfway, two smaller staircases branching off of the main one in opposite directions. The ceiling opened up to allow for a ringed balcony and, hanging perfectly still in the centre, was quite possibly the largest chandelier Keith had ever seen: it was solid gold, with at least ten different lamps held upright, big enough that Keith could discern the floral patterns moulded into the protective glass balls. Strings of silver gems looped around the golden arms of the light fixture, three metres in length; dangling stars orbiting a precious sun. Lance’s camera torch occasionally flickered across the reflective surface, illuminating the hall for the briefest moment with a smattering of rainbow glares.

“Keith, are you seeing this?!” Lance squealed, pushing the spare flashlight into his friend’s hand. Keith took it, to keep up his human facade, aimlessly spinning the light across the walls. 

“I sure am. If you’d shown me pictures of this, I probably would’ve been more eager to come. It’s gorgeous.”

As Keith began to wander around, Lance had already started chatting to the camera, racing around the room to achieve different angles and shots, detailing the manor’s history and fussing about the lavish ornamentation. There was no point trying to keep up with him, the echoing sound of his accelerated footsteps ricocheting from wall to wall at a rapid-fire pace, so Keith headed over to an alcove at one end of the room. A luxurious armchair sat next to one of the numerous bookshelves, frayed at the edges and pale from age. The bookshelf was taller than he was and laden with a variety of tomes and scripts, so much so that the supporting wooden boards were permanently bent. Choosing a book at random, Keith wrapped his fingers around a stained brown spine and pulled it from the shelf, spluttering at the plume of dust that followed. It was a thick book, with a strong leather covering and a scarlet fabric bookmark. Unfortunately, the title had been aggressively scratched off, presumably by a previous reader - harsh, jagged lines, like the claw marks of a wild cat, had been inflicted onto the front, the only visible letter being a golden ‘I’. Keith sat on the arm of the chair, ignoring the filth that was no doubt sticking to his jeans, and flicked to a random page, curious to see if he’d ever encountered this text before. The leather was warm against his bare fingertips.

_ Matthew 25:45-49 _

_ “He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’ Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.” _

It took Keith a few seconds too long to process the words in front of him, a few seconds in which the leather was no longer warm but burning hot. A pained yelp escaped his lips before he frantically threw the Bible onto the floor, a resounding thump booming over the excited babblings of Lance, who practically jumped eighteen feet into the air at the sudden noise and let loose a scream similar to a puppy being trampled on. Keith didn’t have time to laugh at him though, the nasty upheaval of hunger bringing him to his knees, teeth clenched so tight they could’ve shattered with a gentle tap. 

There it was. Not ten minutes into their investigation and he was already losing control. A single expression of fear - no, not even true fear, merely shock - and those god awful urges had arisen once again. 

_ There’s nobody around. It would be so easy.  _

“Jesus fucking Christ, man! Why are you launching books around the place? The ghosts aren’t gonna want to interact with us if we’re destroying their shit!” Lance exclaimed, rushing over to where Keith was knelt, desperately trying to compose himself. No matter how hard he attempted to suppress this stupid Resurgence, it refused to go away. He breathed in and out, deeply, for a moment, leaving Lance without a response. The voice silenced itself but, just like in the bathroom at the rest stop, the perpetual, gnawing feeling of famine remained, drumming impatiently beneath his skin. 

“Keith? Buddy?”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you. Don’t disrespect the ghosts. Whatever.” he said, keeping his voice steady and inconspicuous. Lance, however, continued to frown.

“Why are you on the floor? Are you praying or something?” he continued, picking up the discarded Bible and opening it up to the page Keith had abandoned. 

“Of course,” Keith chuckled sarcastically. “Never a bad time to get a few words up to the big guy.” 

That received a laugh, and the tension eased. Keith pulled himself to his feet using the bookshelf for support, retrieving the flashlight that he had sat in the empty space between the books. Lance still held the Bible in his hands, staring uneasily at the ruined cover. He ran his index finger over the lines, probing the depths of the irregular indentations. 

“Woah. Surely this has to be some sorta mega sin, right? Someone really did a number on this thing.” he was half talking to Keith, half talking to an invisible audience - he held the Bible up in front of the lens before hastily placing it back on the shelf. “I swear, if this place holds some freaky demonic crap, we’re leaving.”

“Agreed.” Keith said, rubbing the back of his neck, wincing slightly at the movement of his injured fingers. He seriously had to be more careful. Any more slip ups, and this night was going to end in catastrophe. 

Seemingly satisfied, Lance returned to his monologue and strode off in the direction of a spacious hallway, yelling for Keith to catch up, whipping the camera round the foyer a final time before disappearing through a hallway. Not wanting to delay this dreadful investigation any further, Keith quickly composed himself a final time before racing to meet Lance’s pace. 

As he entered the sparsely decorated hallway, however, an unusual sensation washed over him. He physically shuddered and came to a halt, shoes scratching the ancient flooring. 

It wasn’t his Resurgence. No, this was a different feeling. One that he hadn’t felt for a while, but one that he distinctly remembered. It felt like someone, or something, somewhere, was watching him. Not a ghost - this felt like something far more sinister. His body felt heavier, a weight on his shoulders that he couldn’t shake off, yet not as strong as he expected it to be. Though it was distinct, it was faint; a weak tingle in the dreary atmosphere of the manor. 

It made him nervous. Well, more nervous than he already was. Sweat flooded his palms, the fabric of his gloves growing moist and sticky - he took them off and shoved them into his back pocket, wiping the unfortunate liquid away on his jacket. Without the trademark accessories, his hands felt naked and cold, but he’d rather a slight chill than stinking of perspiration. 

It quickly dawned on him that everything about this manor made him uncomfortable. It was gorgeous, there was no denying that, but also fake, too flashy to be genuine. It didn’t feel like it could ever have been a home, just a stoic landmark; built to impress, not comfort. Adding all these weird feelings, the indication of possibly more religious commodities, and the deep-seated fear that his best friend would be dead by morning had him wishing that they could just pack up and leave. Go back home where it was safe and calm and normal and all Keith had to worry about was art deadlines or who was on dish duty or whether Lance was gonna ditch on bowling so he could go out and attempt to get laid. Home was where ruthless murder was not. Keith could be hidden away in his room, claiming that he was terribly sick, or on holiday, to avoid tearing anyone apart. 

“I  _ really  _ should’ve listened to Allura.” he thought aloud, rubbing his tired eyes with a thumb and index finger. She was probably the only good source of knowledge or wisdom in his life currently, yet once again he had gone against her advice. This was just like the time he had procrastinated completing that important sketch dump for that sci-fi game, specifically requested by the higher ups in the development team, so he could accompany Lance to his dance rehearsals because he had a big performance coming up. Or like the time he had decided to plan an entire surprise party at their house for Lance’s 21st birthday, even though Allura had her private faery council visiting the same day, so he rescheduled without telling her, leading to the council turning up the week before when Allura and Romelle were sharing some... “alone time”.  _ Or _ like when Lance first moved into his apartment and Keith paid his rent and all his other bills for the entire first year because he didn’t want him worrying about finances. 

A pattern was becoming visible to him very quickly - Lance. What was the deal with him and Lance? He had this inexplicable urge to help him all the time, to make sure he was okay and happy and surviving. Too emotionally motivated, that’s what it was. He agreed to go on this trip, ignoring any other reasonable option, because he didn’t want to upset Lance. The idea of Lance being upset with him made him feel all kinds of terrible. Teasing him and occasionally pissing him off in a joking, friendly way was fine. They had had a multitude of arguments the five years they had known each other, many of which Keith had remained bitter over for months. Yet, going out of his way to make Lance feel genuinely shitty? That was out of the question. It made his stomach churn with unease and heavy, stifling guilt.

Christ, he was pathetic.

Sighing, he decided to tuck the flashlight into one of the belt loops on his jeans, ready to try and catch up with the investigation for a second time when the faint scent of smoke wafted into the hallway from behind. Fearing a fire, he turned on his heel and raced back into the previous room, just to find it exactly as they had left it. Not a single spark or flicker of flame in sight. 

He paused, the cogs in his head whirring, trying to process exactly what he was smelling. Definitely a smokey smell, but also… not?  It was reminiscent of burning coals, or maybe a lit cigar - not clean like wood smoke, but dirty and thick. Even with his heightened demonic senses, amplified even further by his Resurgence, the aroma was weak. There’s no way in hell Lance would’ve been able to detect it while exploring the foyer, and it had gone completely unnoticed by Keith up until now. Try as he might, he couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from. The only thing he could ascertain is that it grew slightly more obvious over by the bookshelf with the ruined Bible. 

“Wish I could check the Archives.” he muttered to no one in particular. There were no demons here (barring himself, of course), but there could have been a few assigned here at some point in time. It wasn’t uncommon for Satan to assign a work team of maybe two or three budding demonic entities to do a part-time job on an old, haunted house, especially if it was a hotspot for ghost-hunters. Maybe some demons did used to work here, but soon found that their efforts were in vain, considering nobody actually visited this place - at least, that was the case according to Lance and his online sources. 

This whole thing was ridiculous, anyway. Fussing about odd smells in a house that was centuries old when he should just be continuing with the investigation, focusing on keeping at bay any unwanted feelings or behaviours that may befall his closest friend. It was time to move on.

*****

“Where have you been?” 

Keith had found Lance exiting the manor’s kitchen, another large room that, from the quick glance he got before the door swung shut, had to have held at least twenty different cabinets. The camera was still active, indicated by the shining red dot below the built-in flashlight. His face held a disappointed look. 

“Sorry. There was-” he paused momentarily, searching his brain for an excuse. “Thought I heard something. Like a ghost, or something.”

“Well, I appreciate the enthusiasm but we’re here as a team, so keep up or go home. This is serious shiz. I need you.” 

The last few words had an unmistakable hint of fondness to them that made Keith’s heartbeat stutter. From the look on Lance’s face, it was unintentional, and he didn’t hesitate to speak up.

“For the investigation! I need you for the investigation! In case a ghost tries to tear out my soul or eat my legs or beat me to death with my own camera! C’mon, slowpoke, we’re burning daylight.” And off he strode, in the direction of the hallway’s end, where a set of double doors opened up into a forgotten dining room. Actually managing to catch up to Lance this time, Keith stepped into the dining room and instantly regretted it.

Why? Because bolted to the wall, wrapped in fake ivy and dirty silver streamers, staring down at the mahogany dining table, was an enormous crucifix. It stretched from floor to ceiling, 10 feet in height and carved from the wood of an olive tree, glaring down at its sole unwanted guest - the unlucky half-blood demon. 

“Hey, this room feels good! The kitchen was kinda weird, ‘specially with all that rotten food, but I could easily fall asleep in here.” Completely unaware of his friend’s plight, Lance marched up to the table and calmly sat down on one of the available seats. He placed his rucksack down on the table’s surface and pulled out the ouija board and planchette, obviously eager to get started. Only after the planchette was set perfectly in the middle of the board did Lance turn to see Keith struggling to stay upright, gripping the door frame so tightly that the bones of his knuckles were ready to burst through the flesh of his hands. Sweat cascaded down his face, causing him to blink rapidly as the liquid streamed over his eyelashes. His knees were trembling furiously, and it seemed as if an invisible force was pushing harshly down on his back, the way he was sinking with each passing second. 

“What the fuck, dude, are you okay?!”

Desperately trying to keep his strength under control to avoid his fingers tearing part of the door frame off of the wall, Keith could only shake his head in response - which, in retrospect, was a very poor choice, considering he felt as if his skull was about three seconds away from exploding. Rushing footsteps indicated Lance racing to his side, and for the first time since it started, Keith was glad of his Resurgence. The fear emanating from his partner gave Keith just enough strength to push himself out of the room and collapse onto the cool floor of the hallway. A deep, relieved sigh crawled its way out of his throat. 

Shortly after, a hand gently came to rest on his back. Lance was knelt down beside him, worry etched onto every line on his face.

“Okay, what the actual hell was  _ that _ ?!”

Keith twisted his head so he could look up at the boy next to him. 

“Room. Feels horrible.” he mumbled. “Has to be a malevolent spirit. That makes sense, right? Some entity that wants me out.” It wasn’t the best cover, not by a long shot, but he’d run out of excuses.

“Damn! I mean,  _ woah _ . You looked like you were about to keel over and die! How did you manage to piss off a ghost so fast?” he responded, not hesitating to rub warm circles into Keith’s back. It was reminiscent of a child winding up an antique toy. “I wanted you to do the ouija with me, but maybe it’d be better if you just, I dunno, sat out here?”

“I think that would be best.” Arms quivering, Keith managed to push himself into a sitting position, shuffling backwards so he was leaning against the wall. Of course this family had to be a bunch of devout Christians. They were probably Catholic, too. They were always fucking Catholic. 

The probability of this night ending in success was rapidly diminishing. The clock on his phone showed that they had only been here half an hour; a half hour in which Keith had almost revealed the fact that he was very far from being a human entity. Twice. 

And this was only the beginning. Keith had seen the recordings of previous ghost hunting endeavours. Lance was on the verge of going into cardiac arrest in the majority of them, usually from a door being blown shut by the wind or a vase falling over. The manor looked well-maintained but it was still centuries old; plenty of chances for old furniture to collapse or bookshelves to break or windows to shatter. Hell, there were probably a couple ghosts here, knowing his luck. Old families had a penchant for permanently residing in their homes, even after death, and the possible past presence of demons definitely gave more weight to this theory. All signs led to Lance freaking out, like he always did. Keith really had to get himself under control. 

An old phrase, one that he had been said to him decades ago, resurfaced at the forefront of his mind. Advice from someone he held close to his heart, someone he really should’ve visited about nineteen years ago, when too many things had gone to shit. He spoke the words without hesitation, closing his eyes in an attempt to visualise them coming into effect: if he believed this night would go well, if he saw a successful investigation in his mind’s eye, maybe it would transfer into reality. 

“Patience yields focus.”

Be calm, be collected, and be patient. Patience was of utmost importance. Without patience, he was, to put it frankly, completely fucked. He had calmed himself down in the car, and in the bathroom at the rest stop, so it was entirely plausible that he could do it again. It was cruel to blame his predicament on Lance. He had to be patient with his friend’s feelings - humans were very easily scared when it came to the paranormal or occult, and Keith already knew what Lance was like when faced with possible supernatural occurrences. The outcome of tonight rested on Keith’s shoulders alone: he had agreed to come on the trip, fully aware of the situation, against Allura’s much better judgement. Not once did he try to back out or abandon ship. A meltdown wasn’t inevitable. It wasn’t written in stone, or the will of the universe. A Resurgence, and all the shitty things that came along with it, could be tamed. 

_ You’ve never tamed it before. Stop lying to yourself. Remember all those poor, innocent beings you’ve mercilessly slaughtered? He’s next. _

A low growl started in Keith’s throat. If he could just get this stupid fucking voice in his head to be silent, maybe he’d feel slightly more confident. 

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” came a distracting voice.

Keith was suddenly dragged away from his inner battle and back into the dark hallway. Lance was still bent down beside him, looking confused.  

“What?”

“You said something. ‘Patience yields focus’, I think. So I said ‘uh, yeah, I guess’ and then you said ‘what?’ and now I’m repeating it to you, but I’m going to stop now before I lock myself into a time loop of explaining the situation to you over and over again, ‘cause that’d probably create some weird-ass wormhole in the space-time continuum and we’d be trapped here forever. Got it?”

“No.” That was met with a snort and a playful punch to the leg. Keith tried to remain stoic but Lance’s smile made it impossible - he hid his face between crossed arms and sighed.

“That’s fine,” Lance stood up straight, retrieving his phone from his pocket and slotting it into his harness, beside the EVP. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand my incredibly intelligent ramblings in your condition. So, uh, just chill here for a while, and I’ll do a quick ouija board session for any ghouls that might still be eating dinner for the three hundredth year in a row. Deal?”

Keith’s face remained hidden, but he flashed a thumbs up in agreement. Lance’s footsteps retreated into the dining room, chairs squealing in response to being manhandled after so many days of stillness, and the ghost-hunting commentary resumed, this segment about the various rules of the ouija board. None of them were real, but Keith wasn’t going to be the demon to break Lance’s naive heart.

“I’m not breaking the ‘never do a ouija alone’ rule if you’re here, am I?” he called from where he was sitting, fingers ready on the board.

“Nah, you’re fine. Just get on with it, okay?” Keith said, frowning at how curt he sounded. Lance responded with a chipper thank you, and continued his work.

“My name is Lance McClain,” he began, having balanced the camera on a couple of stained wine glasses so that it could capture the seance. “That’s my buddy Keith in the corridor, and we’re here to communicate with any spirits that may be present with us tonight. If any ghosts are in the room with me, or can hear me from anywhere else in the house, it’d be great if you could use this board to, I dunno, air your grievances… or something.” 

“When did you get so eloquent?” Keith teased, voice muffled behind the fabric of his jacket. 

“I’ve been practising very hard - thought I could impress you.” 

“I’m already impressed with you, sharpshooter. You haven’t passed out or anything.” 

“Yeah, seems like you’ve taken care of that already. Now shut up and let me do my board, or we’ll still be here when the sun comes up.” he finished, and Keith could hear him shuffling in his seat. Taking a moment to clear his throat, Lance continued.

“Is there anyone from the Galra family listening? I know you guys used to live here.” 

No response. He tried again. 

“Mr Zarkon? Head of the house? Are you here?” 

Silence. 

“Lotor? You died, uh, in a pretty bad way. Have you got anything you wanna say, y’know, to someone who could relay a message? What about Honerva? The floor’s open for anyone.”

The words rested in the air for about a minute, the dead air never shifting. Neither Lance, nor Keith, moved - Lance’s fingers didn’t even twitch, remaining frozen on the planchette. 

He was about to ask another question when his hands lurched forward, the table shuddering at the sudden movement. The planchette scraped against the wood of the board, the glass in the centre stopping on the painted black ‘Y’. 

“Keith, it’s moving! Dude, look!” the excitement in his voice was palpable, and Keith lifted his head from his arms to stare into the dining room where Lance was practically vibrating in his seat. 

His mouth parted in muted shock at the scene before him. While Lance was staring wide-eyed at the board, fervently awaiting any further movement, Keith was watching the open space directly above it. The air shifted and wavered, like the surface of a lake on a windy day, rippling unnaturally until the vaguest outline of a human became visible. They seemed to be quite tall, with long, wispy hair, tied back in an uncomfortable-looking bun. From what Keith could discern, their clothes were awfully outdated (a tight waistcoat and puffy knee-length trousers), and on their feet they only wore stockings. It wasn’t making itself visible to Lance, which was probably best considering he’d likely have a panic attack, but demons had a keen sense for all kinds of apparitions, far greater than any other non-human entity possessed. 

“Huh.” was the only thing he could say as he watched the spirit hover, ghostly hands pressing down onto Lance’s fleshy pair. Though he couldn’t make out any facial features, the ghost’s head seemed to erratically switch from facing the board and staring out into the hallway where Keith was recovering. Influencing the board looked to be an astoundingly difficult effort - the figure was pushing with all their might to influence the planchette, yet it barely looked like it was moving at all. That, however, wasn’t dissuading Lance at all. His eyes were glued to the board.

“A Y! It’s on the Y! And it’s moving again, oh my god, Keith!” he was shouting now, quite possibly the biggest grin Keith had ever seen plastered across his face, stretching from ear to ear. The wooden scratching continued as the planchette crawled over the letters at a painfully slow pace, eventually coming to rest on the ‘O’. The ghost paused for a second, observing Lance’s reaction, before continuing its attempt to spell out a message.

“Y...O...U. ‘You’. ‘You’ what?” Lance questioned, but the spirit wasn’t finished. It never faltered, despite the obvious struggle, pushing and pushing and pushing again with whatever strength it could muster up, still frantically twisting its head to presumably stare at Keith. 

A second word - ‘need’ - was soon spelt out in front of Lance, the brown-haired boy almost wetting himself at the sheer influx of ghostly activity, but by the time the ‘d’ had been chosen, the spirit appeared to be waning. It’s wispy outline shuddered and blinked out momentarily, spectral hands shaking with fatigue. It hovered closer to the table, hands not looking like they were guiding the planchette but like they were gripping onto it for stability as their influence dramatically waned. Lance waited patiently for any further movement, even asking a couple of extra questions, but it was clear the ghost was done. 

“Did you get all that?!” Lance asked the camera after guiding the planchette to ‘goodbye’, pointing at the now still ouija board. “We just had an actual ghost communicating with us through the board! That has never happened before, not on any ghost hunt. Even on my more extensive investigations, I’ve never experienced anything like that!”

Keith remained on the floor outside, thinking. The excitement Lance was feeling was clearly overpowering any fear he might’ve experienced during the session, considering no more hunger had flared up - that was good. But that wasn’t all he was musing about. No, Keith’s thoughts were quickly drifting towards the figure still floating above the dining room table. 

Having given up on the board, the figure’s glare was now locked directly on him. Unwavering. It was quite unsettling, since Keith couldn’t make out its face. Just a blank slate, frozen in the air, watching his every move. 

‘You need’. What did they need? To shut up? To get out? To ask better questions? Was it something they both needed, or was the order aimed only at Lance, who was the one actually interacting with the board? Or was it the half-demon slouched in the corridor, a guest who kept catching the ghost’s eye? Keith didn’t have an answer for anything, but that didn’t stop him wondering. 

Figuring this part of the unlively tour was over, Keith pulled himself upright, brushing off any dust that had accumulated on his clothes, and headed towards the dining room. He stopped just outside the doorway, watching his partner pack the board back into the rucksack, ready to move on. 

“That was awesome!” Lance exclaimed, slinging the bag onto his shoulders and grabbing the camera from its makeshift glass tripod. “You must be a ghost magnet or something, because I have never had  _ anything  _ that cool happen on a trip.”

“I’ll add that to my list of completely useless talents.” Keith said, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed. “But I agree - that was very cool. Did you get it all on film?”

“I sure did!” Lance whooped, holding the camera above his head in a victorious motion. He stepped away from the table, pushing his chair back underneath, and sauntered over to where Keith was waiting. He reached the doorway and was ready to give Keith a good-natured slap on the shoulder when all of the wine glasses on the table shattered into a million tiny shards. Both of them jumped in shock, Lance letting loose another scream and lunging in Keith’s direction, slinging his arms around his neck and holding on tight. Instinctively, Keith wrapped his arms around Lance’s waist, hugging him close to his body in a protective stance, before remembering his current predicament. Once more, the nagging hunger flared up inside him and he was forced to hold it inside, lifting his hands away from Lance’s body and clenching his fists, so hard that his nails cut through the flesh of his bare palms. 

The broken glass hadn’t reached them, the explosion obviously not strong enough to carry the tiny bits of debris further than the tabletop and surrounding floor. A decorative candelabra had also collapsed, but nothing else was damaged - at least they’d only be charged for trespassing, not vandalism, if they were to be discovered by the local authorities. 

A couple of seconds passed before Lance pushed away, physically holding Keith at arm’s length, that weird expression again manifesting on his face. He was actually looking into Keith’s eyes this time, but the action was not reciprocated: Keith was staring into the dining room at the ghost, who’s transparent hands were held steady over the spot where the glasses had been sitting post-shattering. He still could not make out any emotion on its face, but the fearful hostility radiating off in his direction was practically more tangible than the ghost itself was. 

That’s who had shattered the glasses. And their intention suddenly became very, very clear. 

The hand was removed from his upper arm, jolting him back into focus. Lance turned to look into the dining room too, a barely audible gasp escaping his lips. 

“Holy hell!” he hollered, lifting up his camera and zooming in on the damage without pause, flashlight sweeping over every single shard of glass. “A ghost just tried to skewer us! With its own wine glasses! This is INSANE!” The viewfinder displayed a shuddering video as Lance’s hands trembled with excitement. He was pacing on the spot, shifting from one foot to another. His face was pale, the unnatural colour a complete juxtaposition to the enormous grin he was wearing.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” Keith announced, far louder than he intended to, and Lance flipped round to face him again, his wide smile faltering. 

“What are you talking about?”

“This, Lance!” he started, jabbing a finger in the direction of the table. “A ghost spoke to you through a ouija board. Three glasses blew up, right in front of us, in an abandoned house. If you had still been sat there, you would’ve been hurt! And this Res-” he stopped there, before he could incriminate himself any further, slamming his mouth shut into a worried frown. He pressed his fingers harshly against his forehead, releasing a solemn breath, and slid back down onto the floor. 

The manor was supposed to be empty. Every possible safe outcome rested on this goddamn manor being empty. But, of fucking course, it wasn’t. It had a ghost; another ridiculous human that had decided to cling onto their meaningless earthly possessions. And, to top it all off, the ghost was a Christian - or, had been, at least - and so despised his very existence. 

A single ghost had managed to not just throw a spanner in the works of his plan, but launch the entire toolbox and completely obliterate the cogs by flattening them with a steamroller numerous times. A single, weak, inconsequential ghost.

No wonder he wasn’t welcome in Hell.

A heavy thump sounded throughout the hallway as Lance landed unceremoniously on his ass, next to where Keith was speedrunning through the first four stages of grief. The camera was temporarily abandoned by his feet, and he placed his hand softly atop Keith’s thigh. When he spoke, his voice was calm and warm, and Keith’s chest tightened with guilt.

“Hey, man. It’s okay. I’m fine, and so are you. You don’t need to freak out.”

“Sorry. I can’t- sorry.” he couldn’t think of anything else to say. There was no way he could explain anything to him. He really wanted to cry.

“Don’t apologise. Seriously. There’s nothing wrong with feeling spooked on a ghost hunt, I’d know that better than anyone. Weird shit happens, and it’s super freaky, but that’s the whole point. We’ve gotta get as much evidence as we can, or we might as well have stayed at home. Plus, we already know the ghosts are messing with you,  _ and  _ you weren’t feeling too good in the car, either. I’m not gonna make fun of you. Promise. You’re my best friend.”

He stared at the floor, not wanting to see the reassuring blue eyes that were no doubt boring a hole into his skull. “Thanks. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this. I’ve screwed up your investigation too many times. I’m probably the worst ghost hunting teammate you could have.”

“Bullshit! We’re a great team!” Keith gently shook his head, making Lance grab his wrist in a way that demanded attention. “You’re great, Keith. Really. This is the first investigation you’ve ever been on, it’s dumb to expect you to be perfect at it. Nobody aces it the first time, not even me, as hard as that is to believe. And remember, you’re not the only guest I’ve had. The first time I brought Hunk along with me he barfed in my rucksack and passed out on top of it.”

Keith sniggered at that, allowing a small smile to grace his face. 

“Really?”

“Really. It was so gross. My first camera was in there, too. Let me tell you, it did  _ not  _ work again after that. Though, in hindsight, that’s probably a good thing. Imagine if it caught him throwing up on it in high-rez. You’d be able to see every chunk.”

“Okay, I get it.” he said, not particularly eager to hear the details of Hunk’s vomit.

“I’m pretty sure we went to a buffet before the ghost hunt, too. Hunk ate pretty much all of the desserts, and three plates of curry, and a bowl of chicken noodle soup, so the consistency of it would be crazy, splashing over the lens. The colour was so weird too, I had to throw the bag out because he’d puked so much insi-” A pair of hands clapped over his mouth, halting his unnecessary description before Keith himself vomited. His smile grew wider, however, laughter tugging at the corners of his lips and soon Lance was giggling into his fingers, reaching up to pry them off of his face.

“Alright, alright! That’s enough sick talk, McClain. I swear, you are so immature.”

“You’re laughing, aren’t you? Guess I’m not the only child here, huh? Now c’mon, we’ve only got the basement left to do, and then we can head back” Lance said, grabbing the camera and springing to his feet. He offered his hand to Keith, who hesitantly took it, and hoisted him upright too. “We can leave the other rooms for tomorrow and Friday. There’s gotta be a restaurant around here that’s open late, or we can raid the convenience store for snacks - whichever you prefer.”

Keith stood awkwardly, fumbling the zipper on his open jacket. Lance was being so nice to him. Too nice to him. He didn’t deserve him, not at all. 

Risking a glance into the dining room one final time, Keith saw that the ghost had vanished.

“Let’s just get this over with.” he mumbled, wincing at the enthusiastic agreement he quickly received in response. 

He didn’t say anything more during the short walk to the basement. 

*****

Unsurprisingly, the basement was dark. And dirty. And cold. 

The stairs they used to descend into the dreary depths of the manor were cracked and uneven. Broken-up bits of stone had accumulated on every flat surface, crunching underfoot and scattering down into the abyss at the slightest provocation. Heavy wooden rafters supported the ceiling, years of untreated dry rot and termite infestations reducing them to irregular shaped logs, a sight that made Keith’s anxiety skyrocket - even if they managed to do this without any demonic incidents, they could easily be crushed under a tonne of rock and dirt. 

The walls were made out of uneven stones, stuck together by crumbling mortar and arranged with no noticeable pattern in mind. Each wall was divided into three even sections by vertical wooden beams, off of which hung rusted metal lanterns. While being just a single room, the basement was large, spanning about fifteen metres in both length and width, relatively empty - a few pieces of old furniture and equipment sat uselessly in corners, or lay isolated on the hard floor. A cheap-looking wooden table was positioned in the centre of the room, holding nothing but dust. 

It was like they’d entered an entirely different house. There was not a single thing grand or expensive about this part of the manor: no exquisite masonry, no fancy lighting or decoration pieces, nothing. It was quite morose, the more he looked. He didn’t like it one bit.

“This is where he hung himself.” Lance said, trudging towards a particular section of divided wall. A frayed rope hung limply from an intact rafter, like the carcass of a long-dead snake, the free end muddied and tied into a noose. Below the rope was an overturned stool, beside which a pair of leather dress shoes had been left. The golden buckles were unclasped. 

“Lotor.” Keith muttered, not in response, but realisation. An ancient pair of shoes, abandoned at the scene of a terrible suicide. The angry ghost, who wore nothing but stockings on its feet. Lotor was that ghost. He had spoken to them through the board. He had broken the glasses. He wanted Keith out of his house. 

“Yep.” Lance was bent down by the stool, ensuring a clean shot of the morbid site, taking special care not to disturb any of the objects from their final resting places. There was an unmistakable tinge of sadness to his tone; Keith desperately wanted to reach out and give him a comforting hug or squeeze his hand in a way that conveyed reassurance, but quickly decided against it. Now was not the time. “What a shitty way to go. Even worse for his mom, too, walking in on her son’s body, after having to deal with her husband kicking the bucket a few months before. Can you imagine seeing something like that? I’d be messed up for life.” 

Keith didn’t have to imagine. Just another benefit of living through so many horrible events in human history.  

“Must’ve been terrible. Are you sure it’s a good idea to do the spirit box down here? Like you said, we don’t want to disrespect the ghosts.” He hated how desperate he sounded, but he also had reached a new tier of nervousness. If there was any way to skip this final stage, he’d happily take it. 

“We’re not forcing them to speak to us, so don’t panic. They’ll only talk if they want to talk. No disrespect intended.” 

Before Keith could object again, Lance spun round on his heel, scurried over to the ancient table and dropped his bag down on top of it. He coughed as dust shot into the air, waving a hand in front of his mouth, all while reaching into the rucksack and retrieving the final item of the night: the spirit box. The metal device shone in the light of the camera’s torch, which had once again been balanced on top of some random possessions of the Galra family (this time around it was a rotten crate Lance had retrieved from beneath the table) to get the perfect angle for filming. Failing to keep a neutral face, Keith stood beside him with the most conspicuous frown. His entire body was trembling. 

Retrieving the extra torch from his belt loop, he went to place it down on the table when a large moth, almost the size of his hand, fluttered lazily into the beam. He released an embarrassing squeak of shock and instinctively dropped the torch, the creature changing course to stay in the yellow light. 

“Careful! You could’ve squashed it.” Lance exclaimed, bending down to get a closer look at the insect. Its wings were massive, making up the majority of its larger-than-average size - both forewings were a deep ebony shade, two curved lines on each adding a dash of dazzling orange. Its hindwings were a calm maroon colour, pockmarked with miniscule brown dots that carried over to its dark abdomen. Around its thorax was a ring of apricot fluff, like a little puffy scarf. 

“Look at the detail on it. It looks like it’s wearing a fur coat! That’s so cool.” The moth had landed on the flashlight, paper-thin wings slowly waving back and forth. Lance seemed to be infatuated with the thing, forgetting the investigation entirely to stare at their sudden guest. Keith noticed how the light shining on his face made the blue in his irises shimmer.

“I didn’t know you liked moths so much.” he said plainly, inwardly congratulating himself for not stumbling over his words. 

“I know it’s weird, but I think they’re really cute. They’re like emo butterflies. People seem to hate them for some reason, which sucks, but I don’t.” He looked up to see Keith smiling down at him and quickly straightened up, rubbing the back of his neck. The moth leapt into the air, startled by the movement, but soon settled back down onto the head of the flashlight. “Not that that’s important right now! We need to do our spirit box session.”

Keith dropped the smile instantaneously. Right. The spirit box. The one item in Lance’s bag that Keith had never seen before, which was surprising. He’d already had a terrible first introduction to it, that horrible static screeching echoing in his brain from when he accidentally turned it on back at the hotel; if a robot was getting brutally murdered, it would sound like the spirit box. 

“Is it gonna be as loud as it was before?” he questioned, already angling himself away from where the circular device was positioned, bracing for the war against his eardrums.  Lance nodded. 

“Yeah, it is. Don’t freak out like last time, okay? I can’t afford to buy another one.” 

Don’t freak out. That was the plan. Not an incredibly detailed one, with at least an entire metaphorical spreadsheet of all the ways it could spectacularly fail, but a plan nonetheless. 

It was succinct. Self-explanatory. Simple. 

So simple that he’d screwed it up three times already. 

With a swift press of a button, the spirit box’s deafening static screams filled the air of the basement, destroying the previous unsettling, yet tranquil, ambience. Both boys jumped, even though they were expecting the noise, Keith going as far as taking an additional step backwards. He truly didn’t understand how the machine was supposed to be effective in ghost hunting - surely every ghost in a ten mile radius would turn tail and disappear if this odd little box started screeching at it. 

Lance began again with the introductions, half shouting to be heard over the noisy device. Keith said nothing, merely standing to the side and watching, the perpetual, gnawing weight of dread multiplying with every passing second. This had to go right. Lance had to be okay by the night’s end. Patience yields focus. 

The incessant metallic roaring was pounding against his skull. His heartbeat dramatically sped up. Sweat dribbled down the back of his neck, his forehead, his palms, everywhere. He was going to be the one having a panic attack in a minute, the way his head was spinning like he was on a roundabout, even though he was completely frozen. He could barely hear what Lance was saying, the words jumbling into a mess of incoherent nothingness. He needed to pay attention. 

“So, any of you feel free to chat with us! Lotor, Honerva, Zarkon, whoever. Hell, even if you’re not from the Galra family, don’t be shy - the spirit box is super easy to use, and me and my buddy are ready to hear anything anyone wants to say.”

A couple milliseconds of radio chatter warped the regular bursts of noise, but nothing more. 

“All you gotta do is mess with the static. It’s all a matter of energy, which I’m sure you all have, being ghosts ‘n all. Anyone wanna introduce themselves to us?” 

The audio glitched for a second, static buffering.

“Was that someone trying to get through? If so, keep it up! We’re not in a rush or anything.”

An abnormal noise, a mixture between a cough and a sob, cut through the screeching, but still nothing substantial could be heard.

“That didn’t sound normal. Is someone there? Please try and speak to us, we’d be really happy if you did. Lotor, if you’re there, we’d love to hear from you. We know this room prolly isn’t your favourite spot to hang around, but if there’s anything you wanna announce to the world, my camera’s listening.” Lance looked puzzled for a moment before turning to Keith. “Wait, did they even have cameras in the 1700s?”

“I don’t know.” he replied. His voice cracked on the second ‘o’ and he could feel his throat constricting with anxiety. All memory of that century erased itself from his mind. He couldn’t think straight. 

“Okay, well, if you’re confused, the camera is that thing there,” he started, turning back round to face the spirit box. “But if you’re a bit intimidated, you can ignore it and just speak to me and Keith. We’re listening.”

Still nothing. Keith glanced around the room, eyes peeled for any spectres or old-fashioned clothing, but the basement was empty. They were alone. 

“Why don’t you ask something?” Keith’s eyes widened. 

“What?”

“Ask the ghosts something. Y’know, a question. Maybe they don’t wanna speak to me, maybe they wanna speak to you. Go on, ask whatever you want! You haven’t really been very involved in all this. I don’t want you to get bored, or feel like I’m hoarding all the hunting. So, ask away.”

He tried to swallow the golf-ball of panic that was rising in his throat, but the attempt failed. Lance was staring at him expectantly. Something felt off.

“Okay. Okay. Fine.” Looking down at the box, his eyelid twitched. “Hello. Do you have anything you want to say… to us?” He was surprised he could get the words out. His teeth ached. 

Suddenly, the device stuttered, the awful noise cutting out altogether for about three seconds before resuming its auditory assault; this time, however, the static sounded different. 

“ _ GET OUT! _ ” came a woman’s voice, her high-pitched, raspy tone an explosion of sound, one that made Keith’s eardrums practically shatter. The spirit box’s whining split up her words somewhat, but they remained intelligible. Her tone was not angry. She sounded scared. Terrified, even. 

“Woah, nelly!” Lance exclaimed, and the surge of hunger made Keith’s skin crawl. 

It wasn’t much. He could handle it. Lance was unusually calm. That was great. No more accidents. No more. 

_ Please. _

“Was that Honerva?” Lance responded without any hesitation, shock and glee fighting to take centre stage on his face. “Mrs Galra, do you want us to go?”

The spirit box physically shuddered, more words clawing through the static, fragments of a sentence flying out into the cold basement air.

“ _ LEAVE… PLACE… OUT. _ ” She sounded desperate. Lance continued. 

“Why? Why do we have to leave?” His hands were gripping the table. His fingers were shaking. 

“ _ YOU… GO… PLEASE. _ ” The heavy blanket of chatter from the box continued to chop up the frantic voice. Keith felt like he couldn’t breathe, like a thousand tiny hands were pressing against his windpipe. 

“You didn’t answer my question! Why do we have to go?”

A ear-splitting squeal escaped from the device, prompting Lance to jump back from the table in fright. The noise was so loud that Keith could barely hear the voice in his head resurfacing. 

_ Nobody would find his remains. Take him by surprise. Do it.  _

The rapid rise and fall of his chest was the first warning sign. Up and down, up and down, erratically, like he was running out of oxygen. His gums were burning.

Something appeared in his line of sight, glowing for a second, before vanishing. A woman. She was there one moment, gone the next. Honerva. 

She spoke through the box again. 

“ _ WE THOUGHT… WERE GONE… WRONG. _ ” It sounded like she was going to cry. Her voice was hoarse; the kind of hoarse that came about after you’d been screaming for hours and hours on end. Lance moved closer to the device.

“What’s wrong, Honerva? What’re you tryna say?” he said, putting on a brave face. The reply was fast, and clearer than before.

“ _ IN… ROOM… NEXT TO… YOU. _ ” The overwhelming urge to grab Lance and bolt out of this hell-house caused Keith to instinctively shiver - he had to force his arms to stay down by his sides.

_ Get him, before it’s too late. Let it all out. Tear him open and devour that delicious fear. You can’t resist it forever. End him. _

Everything was falling apart. He didn’t know how long he could contain himself. Didn’t know if he could contain himself. This was bad. This investigation needed to end. Why was Lance so fucking oblivious?!

“What’s next to us? There’s nobody here.” the brown-haired boy questioned, eyes darting around the room, as if they expected to see an uninvited guest trotting down the basement stairs. In his sweep, his eyes locked onto Keith, who managed to perform a twitchy shrug. Lance shrugged back, and turned away.

_ Stupid, foolish human. He’s not worth anything. Nobody will miss him. Do it now, Keith. Do it! _

Keep it all inside. That’s what he had to do. Lance had to be okay. He had to get this under control. The tumultuous river was widening, deepening, growing faster and faster, stronger and stronger. The mental dam was fit to blow. The hunger was drowning him, legs trapped in the muddy riverbed that was his mind. He couldn’t free himself. He didn’t know if he could hold it back. They were doomed.

Honerva still wasn’t finished. The silhouette appeared once more in the corner, flickering on and off like a faulty lightbulb. The static emanating from the spirit box changed, the chilling frequency lowering momentarily to an eerie, broken-up moan, which bounced off of every wall in the basement, droning on and on for what felt like hours. 

Then, suddenly, it stopped. She spoke again.

And what she said made Keith’s heart plummet to his feet. 

“ _ DEMON… THE DEMON! _ ”

The colour faded from Lance’s face. Pupils dilated. Goosebumps spread across his skin like wildfire. It didn’t even look like he was breathing. 

_ Kill him. _

His eyes were open cartoonishly wide. It would’ve been funny at any other time. He was entirely encased in fear. It stopped him from trembling, it stopped him from responding, it stopped him from doing anything at all, other than staring at that cold, metal device in pure, unadulterated terror.

_ Kill. Him. _

The onslaught of famine hit Keith like a bullet train.  

“The… what?” his voice was barely audible. Both hands were gripping the table, brown skin turning deathly white. He looked on the verge of a seizure. 

The spirit box choked out some more metallic gurgles before Honerva inevitably pushed through once more. She was screaming now, so loud that her voice came out with almost no interference. It felt like the earth was cracking. 

“ _ GET OUT… YOU NEED TO LEAVE… IN DANGER… LANCE, GO- _ ” The previous eerie silence returned to the basement before she could finish, the spirit box quickly cutting off as Keith’s fist came right down on top of it with so much force that he could feel splinters from the surface of the table stinging his hand. Metal and wiring shot away from the impact zone at record speed. The remaining pieces of the device spluttered and spat out sparks. A miniscule plume of smoke was coughed into the frigid air. 

Lance stared - at the remains of the device, and then at Keith. 

Keith stared back. His breathing was ragged. 

A single, wavering exhale escaped Lance’s lips.

The dam - that Keith had been so meticulously building up - burst.

_ KILL HIM.  _

And all hell broke loose.

With a roar so horrendous it would’ve petrified a lion, Keith began to transform. The visceral sound of cracking bones shattered the quiet, joints and flesh and sinew coming apart and reforming again, pushing his height up to a towering seven feet. Crimson daggers tore through the skin of his fingers, slick with pus. A pair of charcoal coloured horns curved up from his skull, twisted points perfectly sharp, indented with inky black rings. 

He hunched over, eyes tightly shut, a guttural growl starting up in the base of his throat. Pain arced over his back, digging into his spine, round and round and round until it separated into pulsing points below his shoulders. With a terrible wet noise of splitting tissue, two clumps of quivering meat ripped the bloody fabric of his shirt and jacket, forcing themselves out into the basement air, unfurling to reveal an intimidating set of leathery wings. They closely resembled those of a bat, skin pulled tightly over outstretched bones, with jagged points at the end of each skeletal finger. His wingspan was enormous, wingtips brushing against the ceiling and sliding across the rotten rafters. Both the now-torn harness and EVP fell to the ground, the impact leaving a sizeable dent in the latter.

Dark streams of blood gushed from his mouth as his teeth shuddered and warped, flat enamel surfaces morphing into razor-sharp canines. He spat bits of gum from his mouth and they splattered against the floor, discoloured fluid oozing from the little balls of decimated flesh. 

Opening his eyes, his pupils shrunk to pinpricks, convulsing rapidly. Sharp ends became visible as the grey of his irises shifted from a stormy sky to a dazzling sunset, sclerae overcome with a striking shade of yellow until there was nothing left of white. Any remaining grey was sucked into his pupils, which had flattened into jet-black slits; the eyes of a venomous snake. 

Someone’s heartbeat hammered in Keith’s ears. Agonising. Every hurried thump made the ravenous hunger clawing up his insides more powerful. Almost palpable. 

He could’ve choked on it. His throat was constricting. 

The voice was screaming. It consumed him entirely.

There was a person in front of him. He wanted them dead. 

The wretched desire, that feral want, was indescribable. It eliminated all rational thought in his mind. Any passion, any empathy, any intelligence; it had all been destroyed. He was an animal. A savage beast. A monster, controlled only by hunger and fear. Nothing more. Any semblance of humanity he had previously held was gone. The darkest urges, the most hellish compulsions, had crawled out of the rotting back-alleys of his mind. And he couldn’t think long enough to stop them. 

The room tilted. It felt like he was going mad. Blinking furiously, he tried to steady himself, wings twitching unconsciously. He realised he was moving forward, slowly advancing towards his prey. The weak victim. Just a vessel, brimming with an avalanche of delectable fear. 

The thought of devouring it made his mouth water. 

A deranged grin spread across his face. There was so, so much of it. His appetite would be sated in minutes. All he had to do was crack open the pot of gold before him; simply peel the skin away from its bones, and collect his prize. Nothing else mattered. Hunger and fear. Hunger and fear. 

Unexpected movement made Keith pause. His prey was trying to find an escape route. Its head swung round and round, eyes frantic. There was nowhere to run. It was trapped. 

Finding its efforts to be fruitless, his prey began to move backwards. One step. Then another. And another. Keith watched. It kept reversing until it hit the wall behind, pressing its flesh as far back as it possibly could. It stopped moving then. What else could it do?

Both of Keith’s hands were trembling in anticipation. No more waiting. No more resistance. It was now or never. This was the perfect moment. He would be complete. The river’s current was unstoppable. It had breached the bank, tumultuous waves enveloping all he had been. This dreaded tsunami was all that remained. 

Overwhelmed with adrenaline, he surged forward, arms outstretched, ready to claim what his mind was screaming at him to take. A bellowing yell tore out of his throat, chest tightening with the strength of it, and he was so painstakingly close to snuffing out that pathetic light in front of him when the strangest noise reached his ears. His body ground to a halt so incredibly fast that his wings had to aid in slowing his movement, flapping with so much force that clouds of dust and grime billowed up from the floor. He coughed, waving a clawed hand in front of his mouth to disperse the filth, and peered in the direction the noise was coming from. It was muffled and irregular, so quiet that Keith was surprised he’d even heard it in the first place. It made him feel… weird. Like someone had dumped his heart in a bucket of ice water. He didn’t like it. How could he make it stop?

Taking a step forward, he swiped at the immediate air around him, vision becoming clear. He stopped where he was standing. The human’s blue eyes were staring back at him, glinting with moisture. 

It was crying. 

It held its mouth shut tight, biting its bottom lip so only the tiniest noise was released. The suppressed sobs made its breathing harsh and its body shake, tears tracking wet lines down its cheeks. 

Keith hated it. He didn’t know why he did. He just wanted it to stop - not out of fury, or irritation, but out of… what? What was this feeling that was welling up in his chest? 

_ What are you doing?  _ the voice growled. Keith didn’t have an answer. The human was exerting some sort of power over him. If he could just strike now, it would stop. One flick of a claw and the thing would be dead, and he would get what he wanted. 

Only, that didn’t sound right at all. This was all wrong. It didn’t deserve to die. 

‘It’. That wasn’t right either. The human had a name. It was on the very tip of his tongue, he knew it was. Not ‘it’. The human was a boy. Twenty three years old. His name was…

“Lance.” Keith’s voice was hoarse and came as a complete shock to both of them. But what he said was true. The boy’s name was Lance. They were best friends. They were ghost hunting. He didn’t want Lance dead. His Resurgence did. They were going to leave this wretched house together. 

The second the thought crossed his mind, the voice in his head exploded into a crescendo of agonising pain and misery. A scream erupted from within him, cruel and raw, and he fell to his knees, digging his claws into the fractured stone of the basement floor. It was a useless attempt to keep himself grounded, the power of the enemy inside him far too strong, and he was soon leaping back onto his feet, ready to pounce. He was struggling to control his own body, pushing back against nothing to keep himself away from Lance, who still refused to move a single muscle to escape. Wings flared and spasmed, the holes in his clothes tearing wider by the second, and thick gashes were carved into the weary rafters overhead. Slitted pupils dilated and shrank unnaturally, and the torment in his head continued to increase. 

He was right in front of Lance now, a hair’s breadth away from slicing into his cowering form. The hunger inside him intensified with the close proximity and he almost let himself slip away again, names and faces and reality so close to once more falling through his grip like sand on a long-forgotten beach. 

The voice was incomprehensible. Keith wasn’t sure it was even trying to articulate anything to him - it just screamed and yelled and roared and whined, louder and louder until he was sure his brain had turned to mush. Thinking was almost out of the question. It was drowning out everything. 

He had to find something to grip on to. Something to root him to sanity, something tangible to wrap himself around until a solution miraculously appeared in his mind. All he could think of was the voice. He couldn’t risk losing himself again. It would be fatal. Lance wouldn’t stand a chance. 

An arm came into his field of view, shaking to such a great extent that it seemed ready to snap. Lance held it up in front of his face like a pitiful shield; a final defence against an indomitable beast. His jacket sleeve had slid down, revealing his bare wrist.

Keith reacted fast, the catastrophic symphony of pain ricocheting about his skull far louder than any spirit box could ever hope to be, right hand snapping out like an alligator to clutch Lance’s forearm, claws marking little cuts into the boy’s skin. A frightened squeal slipped out from between Lance’s lips. His arm froze at the demon’s touch.

A moment passed where everything suddenly fell deathly silent. Keith’s exhausted brain could barely register what was happening. The horrible voice had been silenced as quickly as it had started, his head retaining a gentle, thumping headache as replacement. The uncontrollable hunger exploded in a final act of ferocity that sent an awful tremor through his spine before it suddenly evened out, transforming back into the civil yet persistent ache that had plagued him for the last month - like it had been scared into submission. It was only once the sound of sizzling flesh became apparent, bursting forth from where Keith’s hand met Lance’s wrist, did either of them react. 

Releasing Lance from his iron grip, Keith flew backwards with a pained yelp, tripping over himself in his rush. He had to latch onto the table for support, an action which only doubled the suffering his hand was experiencing, another yell being spat out into the room. Launching himself right back to where he had previously been, his shoulder collided with the rough cobblestone, adjacent to where Lance was still standing, utterly nonplussed.

The fresh wave of pain in his shoulder was completely overshadowed by the excruciating throbbing that spread like wildfire across his palm. There wasn’t a single patch of skin that wasn’t discoloured, the flesh of his inner hand an angry red welt. Mountainous blisters erupted from the burning cardinal sea, pus quivering beneath the surface, a few droplets seething out from gashes in the lumps. It felt as if he’d pushed his hand down onto a searing hot stovetop and kept it there for twenty minutes. He stared down at his palm in distress, unscathed left hand clasping ferociously onto his right wrist, like he was physically trying to squeeze the pain out of his body. The intimidating crimson claws shrunk back into his knuckles, the agonising burn translating onto the skin of his newly reformed fingers - they resembled a packet of deformed, overcooked hotdogs. 

It took him a while until he was able to look up from the scorching mess of his palm. Any movement led to a surge of mind-curdling torture to terrorize the tender flesh, almost sending him spiralling to his knees in defeat. He couldn’t seem to look away, some morbid fascination taking hold of him. His brain had not recovered from the previous possession of savagery, and he found that he had lost the ability of inward thinking. 

“What the  _ fu- _ ” he began, just as he eventually managed to pull his gaze away from his wound and over to Lance, eyes locking on to his friend’s arm. Barring the tiny cuts that Keith himself had inflicted, Lance’s wrist was bare of any injury. Not a single burn or blister had appeared on the area that Keith had touched. He was perfectly fine. 

“I don’t… what?” he mumbled. His brain was fried. Totally. The cruel mixture of pulsing pain and mental fatigue had left him weary, and now added confusion was sending him into an even bigger spiral of bloated misery and enervation. He couldn’t think straight - he could feel his mind trying to formulate some type of explanation, and ultimately failing. Lance didn’t even look like he was breathing anymore: all he did was stare at his arm. 

Keith felt like he was inebriated, though he hadn’t gone near alcohol in weeks. Nothing made sense. His hand was burning. Lance’s arm, somehow, had given him a second-degree burn. Lance’s arm. 

He had to be dreaming. There was no way any of this was real. 

Distractedly, he lifted his healthy hand to his cheek, absentmindedly running his index finger down the thick, curved scar that lay across it. The inflicted area was rough and raised higher than the regular skin of his face, the red of the blemish a stark contrast to his pale skin. He still remembered the day he’d gotten it: 4th September, 1666, in the midst of a burning London. The flames were spectacular, almost putting Hell’s fire to shame, and Keith had spent hours wandering the city, watching in awe as the chaos grew. The fire hadn’t bothered him, not at all - no, it was a certain someone who’d given him his signature look, who’d encountered him on particularly bad terms and gifted him this permanent memento of their first time meeting. A small smile flickered onto his face at the thought, but it soon vanished, falling away into a saddened frown. It had been almost two decades since he’d seen him. 

The scar had been burned onto him, quite similarly to the one he had just received. It had hurt worse than almost anything Keith had ever experienced, only now usurped by the unimaginable harshness that was continuously pricking his skin - and the damage was permanent, obviously, the age-old mark still visible on his face. Not a bad amount of damage for an...

Keith’s finger paused. The penny finally dropped. 

His eyes grew wide as saucers. __

The realisation nearly sent him reeling. 

_ There’s no way,  _ he thought, hand dropping like a weight to his side. 

_ No fucking way. _

“No.” he whispered, voice small, slitted pupils probing Lance’s rounded ones. “No. That’s impossible.” 

At that point, he wouldn’t have been surprised if his brain matter started leaking from his ears, or if he keeled over and died of a stroke or heart attack, even though both were demonically unfeasible. This wasn’t happening. He had to be experiencing some form of mania or hallucination. Maybe even some fucked up dream. Lance wasn’t… he couldn’t be. It couldn’t be true. His parents were human. Humans couldn’t birth anything that wasn’t also human. It was a biological impossibility. His mother couldn’t have defied the most fundamental law of nature. It simply couldn’t happen.

And yet, the supposed impossibility was seemingly a reality, visible before his very eyes. His hand was the incontestable evidence. Only one species could do what Lance had done to him. The power, it was specifically anti-demon. He’d never encountered, or even known of any other creature capable of harming demons in this way. It was pure, unadulterated holiness, concentrated in the DNA of the only type of entity that could harness it. 

Keith felt his sanity was slowly slipping away again. His mind was on the cusp of completely shutting down. 

Stupidly, and without hesitation, he lurched forwards and pressed a damaged fingertip onto the skin of his friend’s forearm, yelping again and pulling away once the pain intensified. 

He held the digit up in the air, unable to do anything but gawk at the seared flesh. Lance was looking too, at the back of his hand. Keith turned said hand around, so the disgusting mess of his palm was facing the petrified boy. Lance paled even further, a tiny gasp escaping him. 

That was the final straw.

Eyes rolling up into the back of his head, Lance’s knees buckled beneath him. He fell forwards, entirely limp, arms dropping like bags of cement to his sides. Instinctively, Keith reacted with aggression, injured hand balling into a fist and launching towards Lance’s face, knuckles connecting harshly with his left eye. Lance’s head snapped backwards, smacking into the cobblestone wall with a sickening thump, before he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. 

Keith wrenched his arm back, making a series of worried noises as Lance fell before his feet. He barely noticed the fresh burns scarring his knuckles where they had made contact with his best friend’s face, tiny cuts allowing for blood to intermingle with the new pus and blisters. His mouth opened and closed, like he was expecting the words to arrive on their own, without any instructions from his brain. Nothing came out.

The sole aim of this night was to keep Lance safe. Oh, how spectacularly that had crashed and burned. 

After so much resistance, the half-demons’ legs finally gave up, and he collapsed heavily onto the ground with just one hand to support his weight. The room tilted at an extreme angle and he blinked rapidly, not allowing himself the consolation of insensibility. The camera’s recording light blinked a steady red, indicating that it was running out of battery, but he didn’t even glance in its direction. All he could see was the boy in front of him.

He hadn’t held back with that punch, like he normally would’ve. It was pure survival instinct. 

A human’s skull would’ve shattered. Keith watched as a solid red bruise blossomed across the afflicted area of Lance’s face. 

He didn’t move. Not for a while, at least. He merely sat. Merely watched. Even as his wings and his horns shrunk back into his body. Even as his teeth cracked and reformed. Even as his pupils shrank back into circles and the yellow disappeared from his sclerae. He just sat and watched Lance’s chest rise and fall. 

Lance. The boy who had befriended him in the bathroom of a bowling alley. The boy who had become his best friend within days of knowing him. The boy who had stuck with him for half a decade. The boy who was inexplicably, unfathomably, indecipherably inhuman.

Lance, the boy who was, somehow, an angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think that went well.
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are very much appreciated! please correct any grammatical mistakes ive made if you spot them. 
> 
> thank you for reading :)


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